


Romancing the Inquisitor

by Emma_Trevelyan



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Halamshiral, Mushy Crap, Oral Sex, POV Cullen Rutherford, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Some Plot, Sweet Kisses, art by me, my art, now with art!!, sexy kisses, some kink, some porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:58:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 41,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4895566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_Trevelyan/pseuds/Emma_Trevelyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was no mistake that Emma Trevelyan was going to turn the world on it's head. What she never knew was just how precious she was to him... </p><p>Cullen and Mage Trevelyan's romance from Cullen's POV. Uses some in-game dialogue, but it varies from the text in places. </p><p>In no particular order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When He Met Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is this girl that just fell out of the breach? And WHY is she so endearing?

When the sickly green rift burst open with a figure trying to break through, Cullen knew it was either going to be a disaster or a miracle. Judging by the day’s events—the Conclave a failure, the highest-ranked members of both the Templar Order and the Mage Rebellion, along with the highest echelons of the Chantry including the divine, dead—it would most likely be the former.

 

The crackle of electricity and the strange distant-thunder sound of the rift hailed suddenly cleared and standing there in its place was the last person he’d ever expected. He’d expected another demon, or perhaps a best-case scenario of a heroic figure, but all he saw was a girl. She was unsteady on her feet before she collapsed in an ungraceful heap.

 

Cullen rushed forward, pushing through his men. They were murmuring—they’d seen it too. There had been the silhouette of a woman flanking this girl. He gently—so gently—turned the girl towards him, and he near recoiled. She was just a human—a soft, blonde wisp of a thing with milk-and-honey skin and a fine blue tattoo under her left eye. The same green light emanating from the Breach above his head was pulsing from her hand. When it flared, she moaned in pain.

 

He scooped her head in his hands, inspecting her for injuries. They weren’t bad—the blood caked to her hair didn’t seem to be hers—but she would need attention from the healers.

 

“Cullen!” he heard Cassandra call, shoving her way from the back. She stopped short when she saw the girl in his arms. But she wasn’t reverent like his men, or even confused like him. She was livid. “So that’s her. The one who killed the Divine.”

 

“We don’t know that, Cassandra,” Leliana Nightingale’s lilting voice was approaching. “Though she is the only member of the Conclave left alive.”

 

“Clap her in irons,” Cassandra growled. “If she lives, we’ll find out what happened.”  


“And if she dies?” Cullen asked, surprised at how even his voice sounded. He still had his gloved hand buried in the girl’s hair.

 

“Then it’s all the better, and justice has been served,” Cassandra spat.  

 

“Take her to the Chantry,” Leliana suggested. “I have a…source there, who may know what to do with her. Cullen, you take her.”

 

Cullen nodded shortly before scooping the girl into his arms, cradling her against his chest. Her head lolled back, exposing a long neck with a shallow cut all the way across the front. It would leave a scar unless a healer saw to it, and even then…

 

One thing he noticed was how light she was. He could feel her ribs and hipbones even under her bulky travelling clothes, and her cheeks were sunken. He just couldn’t believe it—this…girl caused the massive explosion that tore the Temple of Sacred Ashes from its foundation? This girl killed hundreds of people? It wasn’t possible. Even after all he saw, after Kinloch and Kirkwall, he wouldn’t believe it until he saw the evidence for himself. Something is his gut told him that she was just an innocent—terrified and underfed and would wake in the custody of strange people who wanted to execute her for murder she didn’t commit. He’d long ago learned to trust his gut.

 

It was a short walk back to Haven, and Cullen was surprisingly reluctant to leave the girl in Cassandra’s custody. Who knew what she would do to her? They would leave her in the Chantry for now, chained to the floor in their little make-shift prison.

 

~~~

Sometime around midnight, one of his soldiers—one assigned to guard the prisoner overnight—came rushing to his tent in a panic.

 

“It’s the prisoner!” the man exclaimed. “The mark on her hand… it won’t stop! I think she’s in pain.”  


Cullen sighed and pulled himself off the uncomfortable cot. The mark on her hand was unsettling, true. It was probably nothing, a false alarm from an understandably confused guard. He decided to check it out, just in case. He pulled his shirt on over his breeches and stamped into his boots before following the man to the Chantry.

 

The girl was writhing on the floor in obvious pain. He rushed to her side in a strange protective moment. He pushed her hair back from her face, and unconsciously she leaned into the gentle touch. Her whole body was drenched in sweat and her forehead was burning up.  But what was most unsettling was the mark on her hand. With every pulse of the Breach in the sky, her whole hand flared brightly, and with each flare came fresh screams of agony.

 

“What do we do, Commander?” the guard asked him, a nervous twitch in his voice.

 

“Fetch Sister Nightingale and Cassandra,” Cullen ordered. “I’ll stay with the prisoner in case she worsens.”

 

The man wasted no words, but simply fled to carry out his orders. Cullen kneeled next to the girl, helplessly watching as she continued to groan in her sleep. He resisted the urge to run his fingers through her hair; she wasn’t his lover, or even a good friend, after all. She was a prisoner of war, and likely to be executed…if she made it through the night.

 

Leliana came striding into the room (fully dressed, of course; why did _that_ not surprise him) flanked by Cassandra and a bald elf Cullen had never met. Cassandra and Leliana stopped short when they took in the entire scene, but the elf simply strode past them and kneeled beside the girl. He set to work, inspecting her hand with an odd expression on his face, and pressing his long hands against her forehead.

 

“She burns with fever,” he said, his voice smooth and without inflection. There was an accent Cullen couldn’t identify. “And as I suspected, her mark is tied to the breach in the heavens.”

 

“So she did kill the Most Holy,” Cassandra growled.

 

“Not necessarily,” the elf answered. His hand suddenly shone with a pale blue light. “Something about this mark… it doesn’t look deliberate. But it may be our one hope.”

 

“What do you mean?” Leliana asked, quirking a thin brow.

 

“The mark on her hand is obviously tied to the breach,” the elf said, never once straying from his work. “It might be possible that her mark can close the breach, though I’m not sure.”

 

“So that means,” Cullen began.

 

The elf started and made uncomfortable eye contact with the Commander; “That means if we want any hope of closing the breach, she must make it through this alive.”

 

“Can you help her, Solas?” Leliana asked.

 

“I will try my best,” the elf (who must be Solas) answered. “But I will need privacy and time.”

 

“I’ll post guards outside the door,” Cullen rose from his knees and straightened. He tried so desperately not to look worried. “For your protection.”

 

“That won’t be necessary,” Solas murmured. “But thank you.”

 

~~~

Her name was Emma Trevelyan. She was an Enchanter in the Ostwick Circle. And she was _adorable._ He learned that early, but the first time they really talked, it had been about a week or so since the Conclave.

 

She was talking to him, observing his soldiers skirmishing in the yard. Cullen couldn’t help but see her approach from his peripheral vision, but he was distracted by a soldier taking a practice sword to the shoulder.

 

“There’s a shield in your hand! Block with it!” he exclaimed, sighing. “If this had been a real battle, you’d be dead now.”

 

“Sorry, Commander!” the younger man cried, bringing his shield to the ready, but the struck arm was shaky. There would be a bad bruise.

 

“Don’t be sorry,” Cullen ordered. “Take a break, get that shoulder looked at, and be back here in ten minutes.”

 

“Yes sir!” the soldier briefly snapped to attention before returning his practice equipment and scrambling off to the healer’s tent.

 

“They’re certainly improving,” Emma was at his elbow, cocking out a full hip that elongated her already long legs. He swallowed…hard. “It helps that you drill them tirelessly, I imagine.”

 

“The recruits are raw at best,” he sighed, nodding at his lieutenant to continue. “Most are from Haven, others from further, who believe in our cause.”

 

“Our cause,” she murmured, rubbing her thumb over her mark. It was still present, but not pulsing or glowing; just a pale green slash across her palm. She sighed and turned to him, eyes bright. “So, rumor has it you’re a templar?”

 

“Former templar,” he corrected, moving across the sprawl of tents. She followed him, her attention rapt on his. Her eyes were so blue, and she looked at him like he was the only person in the world. It was…intense.

 

“So what’s a former templar doing with a heretical movement?” she pressed.

 

“I was at Kirkwall,” he answered.

 

“Oh.” She averted her gaze, tucking her hands under her arms, effectively hugging herself. “So was I.”

 

“How did you make it out alive?” he asked, his eyes wide.

 

“I was in training to be a Knight Enchanter,” she replied. “Meredith had requested help from Ostiwick’s templars long before Anders blew up the Chantry. We just so happened to be in Kirkwall that night.”

 

“Oh, Knight Captain Garrett,” Cullen recalled. “With Knight Enchanter Cecilia… you must have been the promising apprentice they told me about.”

 

“And you must be the handsome Knight Captain that Cecilia wouldn’t shut up about,” she countered with a smirk. “Though she described Knight Captain Cullen as having the curls of a boy. So you must be someone else.”

 

Cullen scratched nervously at the back of his neck. Her casual smirk faded gradually as she turned northward, towards the breach.

 

“Everything’s a mess,” she sighed. “And now I’m at the center of an uprising, some supposed chosen one with a big fuck-off hole in the sky. Maker what have I stepped in, now?”  


The sudden change in demeanor and subject clued him in—why she came to talk to him. Cassandra desperately wanted to believe that she was the Herald of Andraste; Josephine was always talking business; Solas and Leliana were off putting at best; she had absolutely nothing in common with Varric. For some reason, she saw a kindred spirit in him. It was _almost_ like she understood him. Almost.

 

“I think you’re doing good,” he began, resisting the urge to put his hand on her shoulder. “The mages and templars are threatening to tear this world apart, and the Chantry is more focused on internal power struggles than doing what they’re meant to do. The Inquisition could be a real boon to Thedas. Think of the good we can accomplish, the things we can---,”

 

He cut off suddenly. She was smiling at him. Not smirking, but a genuine bright smile that lit up her face and touched her blue eyes.

 

“I’m sorry. You didn’t come to me to hear a lecture.”

 

“It’s ok,” she laughed. “I like your enthusiasm… and just know I’m happy to hear a lecture any day, so long as you deliver it.”

 

She wasn’t breaking eye contact. He had to get away, or he would do something they both regretted later; “Ah… I should get back. There is much work to be done, after all.”

  
Almost as if summoned, one of his runners came up to him, report in hand; “Commander. Ser Rylan has a report about supply lines.”

 

“As I was saying,” he sighed, a laugh on his voice.

 

“See you around,” she offered. She smiled at him again, that genuine unguarded smile, and turned to walk away.

 

He watched her for a time, following the runner.

 

_If she turns around before I count to five…_

He’d barely reached 3 before she cast a lingering look over her shoulder. They made eye contact and she reddened to her hairline before dashing off about as quickly as she could run. He laughed under his breath.

 

This should be interesting.


	2. When He Knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Emma share a moment after she successfully closes the breach.

She certainly cut the heroic figure.

Flanked by the Templars she’d taken from Therinfal Redoubt with the scar of the breach above her head, Cullen marveled at her. He convinced himself it was reverence. He’d just seen her close the breach, the expanding, gaping hole in the sky that was turning _everyone_ into believers.

Moods in Haven were running high that night. Drink flowed free and the sound of music and laughter drifted down to him from the square. He considered joining the festivities for a moment. He could see her from here.

She was conversing quietly with Cassandra. Her blonde hair was worn in a thick braid over her shoulder today. Despite her victory, though, she looked… sad. And tense. She extricated herself from the merriment. Only when she was out of sight of the dancing townspeople did she visibly deflate.

He went to her.

“You look like you could use some company,” he said with an awkward smile. _Maker_ but why did everything sound better in his head?

“Cullen,” she returned softly. She flashed that smile at him, if only for a moment, and he couldn’t help but return it a little. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind. I just…had to get away.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, falling in step next to her.

“I’m just tired,” she retorted. She was guarded—she was hiding something.

“You have every right to,” he pressed. “You went through a lot.”

They didn’t say much, simply wandered the path surrounding Haven. Her steps were slow and heavy, and he adjusted his stride accordingly. He resisted reaching out to her.

“You’re more than tired.”

She sighed, and her voice shook when she spoke; “It was too easy, Cullen. And now, I’m seen as this hero. This standard… it’s too much. I’m afraid it will be too much.”

“I don’t think so,” he offered. It didn’t seem to help.

“It doesn’t matter,” she sighed. “I just wish… I just wish I could be _human_ for a moment. I wish I could be scared and overwhelmed. I wish I could question today’s events.”

“You don’t think you closed the breach?”

“Honestly?” She turned to him, those big blue eyes shimmering with moonlight and unshed tears.

He tilted his head, this time giving into the urge to touch her. He went to cup her cheek, but instead grasped her shoulder. _It’s too intimate… she is your Comrade, not your lover!_

“You can always be honest with me, Herald.”

“Ok,” she blew a deep breath out through pursed lips. “I think something sinister is afoot here. I heard a voice at the breach when I first confronted it. I still don’t know what happened at the Conclave, and the one responsible is still out there. This isn’t over.

“And if we’re being honest here, I don’t like it when you call me Herald.”

“Oh,” he visibly deflated. He yanked his hand back as if he’d been burned.

“No, I’m sorry,” she growled, pinching the bridge of her nose. It was a gesture he used so much; it was almost endearing to see it from her. “I didn’t mean to come out so harsh.

“What should I call you, then?” he asked. “Lady Trevelyan?”

“Andraste’s tits! No!” she swore around a laugh. He could feel his cheeks redden. “Just call me… Call me Emma, please.”

“Ok, Emma,” he replied. It was a simple action, calling her by name. He did it all the time with others. Why did it carry such weight when he called her ‘Emma’?

“I like how that sounds,” she murmured. She took his hand in hers, running her thumb over his knuckles. She glanced up at him through her eyelashes. There was _intent_ in that gaze.

“Maker’s Breath,” he sighed. He saw more than heard her breath hitch. Sudden electricity passed through them, and it had nothing to do with her magic.

“Cullen,” she breathed, and he suddenly understood her comment. He imagined other scenarios where she may say his name, many of them more _unsavory_ than a passionate gaze in a secluded corner. He cupped her cheek and she held his hand there.

_She’s going to kiss me. I want her to kiss me._

A sudden rumbling on the hillside stopped that train of thought quick.

~~~

The fighting in the courtyard went for longer than he was comfortable, but more made it back to the safety of the gate than not. The mages (the Tevinter mage called them _Venatori_ ) were bad enough but a bloody Archdemon… he began to make peace with the knowledge he would die in Haven.

He had to see Emma just once.

She burst through the Chantry’s doors, bruised and slightly singed but otherwise unharmed. The Warden, Blackwall, was leaning heavily on her shoulder and favoring his left leg, but her other two companions seemed mostly upright. She handed Blackwall off to one of the templars who remained in Haven before he approached.

“Our position isn’t good, Herald,” he said. He could see her visibly stiffen at her title. “That dragon stole back any time you may have bought us. It’s cut a path right through.”

“Is there anything we can do?” she asked. Her hair had come out of its braid and hung loose to her waist. He hoped that wouldn’t affect her.

“We can…” he paused. “We can turn the trebuchets on them. It would bury their armies.”

“If we’re overrun,” understanding dawned on her face. “We’ll bury Haven. Everyone will die.”

She didn’t look afraid. Maker, she didn’t even look _sad._ Just resolved. Cullen imagined he had the same look on his face, and he wondered what on Earth this girl could have gone through to face death the same way he did. After the horrors he’d endured… a protective instinct rose in him. She wasn’t helpless, but Maker she was just a _girl._

“No, there’s another way,” Roderick croaked. The Tevinter was hovering over him, but it was obvious. The man would not live to see the dawn either way. “You wouldn’t know if you haven’t taken the Summer Pilgrimage…”

Cullen tuned the man out. There was a path. One to take them out of Haven safely. It was like a miracle.

“Cullen,” Emma snapped. “Take as many people as you can out. I’ll distract the dragon and use the trebuchet.”

“What of your escape?” he asked. She was silent and would not meet his eyes. “Herald?”

“Don’t call me that, Cullen,” she said. “Just get as many people out as you can.”

His whole world came to a crashing halt. He would never see her again; “We’ll signal you when we’re above the tree line.”

~~~

He wouldn’t cry. His men couldn’t see him cry. But that avalanche had shaken the very Earth. Haven was gone—anyone left inside would not have survived. It wouldn’t be possible.

Cassandra approached tentatively. Her eyes were red and swollen—she had come to value Emma very much. She would be mourning the loss of her friend. And now, there was a storm rolling in. If she wasn’t dead now, the storm would kill her. Or the wolves. Or a rockslide.

Maker, she was gone.

Cassandra put a hand on his shoulder. Her normally cool, even voice was choked with emotion; “For what it’s worth… she cared for you. There were times when she wouldn’t shut up about you.”

His heart hammered in his chest, and his whole face hurt with the effort of keeping it composed. They sat in mutual grief for a time before Leliana strode over to them.

“I have just received a raven from one of the scouts in the mountains,” she said quietly. “He thinks he saw the Herald emerge from a cave at the base of the mountain. It’s slim, but there’s a chance she escaped Haven.”

“Emma’s alive,” he breathed.

“If there’s even the slightest chance,” Cassandra began, choking up.

“We’ll get a search party,” Cullen offered.

“Make it small,” Leliana warned. “We don’t need to create false hope if there is none.”

So Cassandra and Cullen took their most trusted compatriots and most sharp-eyed scouts and forged down the mountain path. The storm had largely passed out of these parts, moving down the mountain towards the remains of Haven, so the path was choked with knee-deep snow. Cullen, in his full armor and padding _plus_ a fur-lined mantle began to shiver. He remembered what Emma had been wearing, and tried to push down the fear.

“If she survived the avalanche,” Cassandra was only just containing her sobs. “She may not have long before she freezes. Maker, I hope she didn’t fall asleep.”

“We can only pray,” Cullen murmured. They kept their eyes peeled, but the light was fading. At this point, their only hope was to stumble upon her by accident. “Did she really speak of me?”

“Now’s not really the time, Cullen,” Cassandra replied, though there was a smirk in her voice that took the edge off.

“Apologies,” Cullen returned.

“But she did,” Cassandra continued. “Tirelessly. She liked… likes your hair.”

“She told you that?” he asked, trying to ignore Cassandra’s use of the past-tense.

“We were in camp, surrounded by soldiers,” Cassandra began, a small smile pulling at her nut-brown cheeks. “We’d been given some sort of Antivan liquor by one of the refugees. They said it was some form of payment for some deed she performed. But you know the Herald; she tried to refuse it.

“Regardless, the man wouldn’t hear of it. So we took it and, that night, we learned that not only can she not hold her liquor, but she’s a rather chatty drunk.”

“So she told you she liked my hair,” Cullen had to laugh slightly at that.

“She, and I quote, ‘wants to touch it.’”

“Maker,” Cullen groaned. They were quick to sober when an icy chill whipped off the mountain top. There was still no sign of her. “It’s getting colder.”

“If we don’t find her in the next hour,” Cassandra began. “I’m afraid there won’t be much to find.”

_Andraste preserve me, what will I find?_

Some of the men were beginning to lose faith, and the fires of the forward camp were becoming more distant. It was so cold, and he feared they would never find her. Wolves were howling in the trees, and though he knew they were most likely just signaling one another on a hunt, he couldn’t help but hear a low-pitched one in the distance. It sounded so alone, so sad…

“Cullen, I see something,” Cassandra murmured, suddenly grasping his arm.

He readied himself to pull his blade before he saw it. The wind whipped a curtain of long blonde hair, and a tiny flicker of green light mere feet from the ground.

“There she is!” Cassandra yelled, rushing forward despite the snow.

Cullen was not far behind. He dropped to the ground next to her, ignoring the biting cold of the snow. She’d collapsed to her knees. Her lips were almost as blue as her eyes, and she was clutching her hands to her chest. She shivered so hard, she looked like she was about to come apart.

“Maker, Emma, you’re so cold,” he said bluntly.

“Really?” she snarked, though the effect was somewhat deadened by her shaking voice. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Can’t you go one minute without sassing me, woman?” he laughed, whipping off his mantle and wrapping it around her. “Can you walk?”

“Feet don’t work,” she shivered, but she pulled the mantle tighter. “Can’t feel them. Too tired.”

“Ok,” Cullen offered. In a swift, smooth motion, he lifted her into his arms. “The forward camp is not far.”

“Oh please, take your time.”

He had to smile. His chest tightened when he saw her turn into the fur ruff on his mantle, inhaling deeply. She relaxed in his arms so suddenly… his face was no longer cold.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured, pressing his face to her hair. He thought she was asleep.

“Thank you for finding me,” she sighed. Her eyes met his and she smiled that beautiful smile again. “I’m glad it was you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, half of this never occurs in the game.   
> No I do not care.
> 
> Thank you everyone who reads this!! You are literally the best thing, and I love you so much!


	3. When He Was Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's lyrium-fueled nightmares reveal a primal fear he never knew he had.

Being in Skyhold gave him time. He had time to set up guard rotations. He had time to be a real commander. He had time to see to fortifications, and Maker, he even had time to stop for a moment.

But he never did. Because if he had time to stop, he had time to think. And sleep. And with sleep came the nightmares.

He’d chosen a small room above his office. It was an austere little place, with a bed, a washbasin, and a wardrobe. He didn’t need much, and didn’t plan on using it except to sleep.

Except he had trouble doing even _that._

It didn’t take much, maybe a voice or a smell or a turn of phrase, and that night he’d be back in Kinloch Hold, or less commonly but no less terrifying, Kirkwall. Though this time, things were different…and baffling.

That day had been like most others. He’d actually had some free time later in the day, and he had played a lovely game of chess with the new Inquisitor. Emma was taking to the role wonderfully, but she often came to him to decompress or get away.

He liked that.

They’d stuck to innocuous topics—mostly their families. He’d learned they had quite a bit in common. For one, they were both the youngest in families of six. She had an older brother, an older sister, and a twin. Her oldest brother, Gerhardt, was the Knight Commander of Ostwick (so Cullen had met him, though he couldn’t quite remember him. It had been a few years). He’d also learned that she wanted to be a templar growing up, but her magical ability had sort of left that as a non-option. It was why Knight Enchanter had appealed to her so much.

And she’d soundly beaten him to a pulp in chess. He wouldn’t deny he hadn’t played as well as he could. She’d taken to wearing this tight-fitting violet velvet vest with a sinfully sheer shirt underneath, so he was a touch distracted. He wouldn’t complain, though. He would lost 1,000 matches just to spend a quiet moment, just the two of them.

~~~

He was surrounded on all sides by abominations, as always. They were subtly different—flecks of red lyrium were embedded into their horrifying, twisted limbs. They reached for him, and shrieked as they struggled to cast magic in his cancellation field. All light was being shut out; the smell of blood was encroaching. He felt like he was suffocating.

He knew this nightmare, and he knew it would fade.

But something was different. At the edges of his vision, he saw a purple flame… a Desire Demon. She sauntered forward, her face beautiful if it hadn’t been a twisted malformed horror of what beauty should be. He lifted his sword, but she merely giggled; it was a strange girlish sound coming from the ghoulish face.

“So this isn’t the shape you want, then,” she purred. She lifted from the ground, her skin shifting and bubbling. Her hair turned from flame to strands of spun gold. Her eyes turned from flame to crystal blue. He should swing, should strike it where it stands, but he couldn’t. Standing before him, before he could react, was Emma.

She smiled so sweetly, that beautiful unguarded smile. She cupped his face, and her hands were so warm. She was naked as the day she was born, and she seemed… so happy to be here with him.

“Is this the shape you prefer?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t as confident. It was almost like she was seeking his approval. She cupped his face, carding her hands through his curls. Her lips were mere inches from his.

His hands were suspended just above her full hips. It would only take a small movement, and she would be pinned under him, and Andraste preserve him, but he wanted it. He wanted to press his lips against that perfect bow of a mouth. He wanted to swallow her moans and make her come undone under his sword calloused hands. He imagined pressing his hand between her thighs, feeling the wetness there…

“It’s the only thing you ever wanted,” she moaned, her unsteady breath brushing his face. “And I can give it to you.”

She lowered her hands to his chest, and she suddenly pushed, sinking her claws into his chest.

The pain was too much. Blood pooled under his templar breastplate. His heart came in erratic heartbeats. Emma’s eyes were the strange flame color of the Desire Demon, but it never once let go of her shape. He had to… he had to kill her, or she would kill him.

“You can never have this,” she laughed. It was a cruel, cold, high-pitched sound that mocked him. “You already lost her. You’ll lose her again.”

Tears ran down his cheeks. There was a dagger in his hands. He had to use it, or he would die.

“Do it,” the demon purred.

With an anguished cry, he plunged the dagger into the Demon’s back. There was the sound of her breath escaping before she collapsed in a pool of her own dark blood. Her eyes shifted back to blue and she gave him a hurt, betrayed look. She struggled to breath; she didn’t shift back her form. She obviously struggled to speak, reaching for his hand.

“Cullen,” she whimpered, her voice shattered and small.

“Maker, no.”

He pulled the dagger from Emma’s back… she was the real Emma. How could he have missed it? How could this have happened? He pressed his hand against the wound—the one _he_ inflicted—and felt the blood bubble up through his fingers. Her eyes were dim, but there was one emotion there—betrayal.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed, using his free hand to hold her closer.”Maker, Emma, I’m so sorry.”

She tried to speak, but blood pooled out of her mouth, reddening her lips and dripping down her chin. She was pale and cold beneath him. She took a shaking, pained breath and the light went out of her eyes. She was gone.

“Emma?” he called, his voice cracking. He tried to will himself to wake, but he wouldn’t. He tried to get a reaction from her, but there was none. “Emma, please.”

He cradled her to his chest, broken sobs tearing from his chest. He struggled for breath as her blood continued to ooze from between his fingers. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his actions.

“You can never have her.”

He froze, his heart speeding in his chest. He recognized the voice, though there was something off about it.

“You see,” the voice continued, drawing closer. “You can’t have her. You’ll always hurt her. Your conviction took away the one thing—the only thing—you ever wanted. It took joy from you before, and now it takes _her._ The world’s hope, and your only chance at happiness.”

He didn’t want to turn. He didn’t want to see.

“Without me, or with me,” the voice cackled. It was right behind him, now. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll lose her every time.”

Cullen whipped around, the fear too much to bear. Behind him was a ghoulish creature deep in the throes of Lyrium madness. A familiar face was transformed into something horrific, with bone-white skin, deep purple shadows beneath eyes with a manic glint. A sickening, too-wide grin split the face in two.

It was his face. It was him.

A too-strong hand shot out, faster than eyes could follow, and closed around his throat, applying pressure…

He shot awake, his whole body drenched in sweat. His sheets were soaked through, and he shivered. Whether it was from the draft or just the remnants of the nightmare, he didn’t know.

For one horrifying moment, he thought he saw Emma’s pale body curled on the floor in the darkness, but it was just his pillow that he’d shoved off the bed. Judging by the state of the sheets, he’d been tossing and turning.

He shoved away from the bed, splashing the water in the basin on his face. It was cold, but it helped. It brought him back to himself.

“And so it begins,” he sighed.

His dreams had _always_ been bad. He’d seen enough horror to give the staunchest of veterans pause. The templars had told him stories of the nightmares they’d had when they had to go long stretches between lyrium draws. Sometimes, it was just headaches, but often the symptoms were as varied as miserable. It seemed he had the gamut— migraines, blurry vision, nausea…and of course, the bad dreams.

Emma had never once been featured, though. He wondered, why now?

He needed time to think; he needed some fresh air. He pulled a on a shirt and the first pair of breeches he put hands on and went out to the walkway outside his office. The night was clear and the moon was full. It illuminated Skyhold like lanterns; he could even see the guards meandering about the yard.

The clear night air certainly seemed to help his lightning heartbeat, but did nothing to banish the images from his mind. He wasn’t sure what was more disturbing. He’d had Emma’s blood on his hands many times—he particularly remembered showing a recruit how to treat head abrasions when Emma had fallen and smacked her head on a particularly sharp rock. She’d bled _a lot._ But it didn’t disturb him then.

Now, all he could see was the dark red across his palms, bubbling up between his fingers, all though the image hadn’t been real.

He supposed what was worst was what he _wanted._ The Desire Demon, a dream though it may have been, was correct. He wanted Emma so badly. He ached for her. He had fleeting fantasies in the war room of being alone, carelessly clearing the table top; her long legs would wrap around his hips, and he could have her against the rough wood. When she was in his office, he thought of taking her against the scarred wood of his desk, or possibly pushing her against a wall.

It had been _so long_ since he’d wanted anyone in his life. He’d been far from celibate in Kirkwall, but he’d felt no connection to the women he saw. He saw no future with them. But they were available and open and willing. Standing before him was a woman he _wanted_ ; a woman he desperately wanted to build a future with was just in arm’s reach. And he couldn’t have her.

“Maybe I should examine that in myself,” he murmured in a wry, cynical tone.

Sudden movement caught his eye. He whipped around and froze at what he saw. Emma was standing at his door. She was hesitant—that much was obvious in her body language. She wore her thin, weightless wisp of a nightdress and her hair was loose. Her fist was raised as if to knock, but she didn’t.

_Why? Why would she come to me?_

She sighed heavily and turned from his door, took two steps, straightened, returned to the door, and stopped again. If he wasn’t so achingly curious, it would be amusing. It was too late for Inquisition work, and _really_ too late for any sort of platonic visit. He didn’t dare hope…

_Does she want to see me?_

Slowly, reluctantly, she turned from the door. As if she could sense his presence, she raised her eyes and they made contact with his. He couldn’t see her well from this distance with this lighting, but she looked so beautiful. She didn’t turn from him, and in turn he didn’t break eye contact. He remembered Haven, and he thought of the intense, lingering gazes they would sometimes share.

_Could she want me too?_

After what felt like an eternity, though it was probably mere minutes, she grinned sheepishly and raised a shy hand in greeting. He smiled and waved back. She took three slow steps back towards her rooms, paused, and cast a look over her shoulder.

She seemed hesitant. She wanted to stay with him.

And she had no idea how much he wanted her to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would once again like to thank everyone for taking the time to read this story. It means so much to me. 
> 
> This chapter takes place in that nebulous period between the chess game and the kiss on the ramparts. 
> 
> This will not be the last chapter where we explore Cullen's characters through his dreams. The one I look forward to the most is the one we witness in game--immediately following the love scene. If you have any suggestions for what THAT could possibly be, let me know!! Would love to hear it.


	4. When He Kissed Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma returns to him safe, sound and looking positively sinful. And thankfully, she wants to act on those feelings.

Maker’s breath, but she looked like sin.

She’d just come back from the Western Approach. She’d been gone for _weeks_ with no news or any sort of correspondence beyond _continuing Grey Warden investigation; it’s hot here, love Emma._ He’d missed her.

Her skin was slightly bronzed from days in the sun; her hair, which had lightened slightly, fell around her in loose, messy waves. But mostly, it was that _corset._ It was black; it left her shoulders bare and dipped scandalously low in the back. Coupled with the fingerless gloves that ended at the top of her arms, he couldn’t look away.  

“Is…” he cleared his throat, trying to ignore his voice cracking (which hadn’t happened in over a decade) and attempted to maintain some measure of professional decorum. “Is there something you needed?”

“We need to talk,” she said, her voice blunt and without inflection.

“All right,” he answered, trying very _very_ hard to look into her eyes and not down the long line of her throat. She was leaning towards him, proudly displaying her chest, which was _not_ fair.  “Maybe we should go some place we won’t be…interrupted?”

“Yes,” she straightened, smoothing the front of her corset and indicating the door. “Shall we?”

He led her onto the isolated part of the ramparts he favored. It was a private area—not much foot traffic—and it was high above the more populated areas. It was cold that high up, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her walk was purposeful, but her sidelong glances to him were uncertain. He counted about four times she opened her mouth to speak, but seemed to change her mind and continue in silence.

“Was there something you wished to discuss?” he asked gently, his fingers itching to reach out to her.

“Yes,” she said, suddenly emboldened. She turned on her heel and faced him square, putting a hand against his chest. He suddenly wished he was wearing his breastplate, like normal, and not the wool coat he’d changed into. Then he wouldn’t be able to feel that small, warm hand against him and he could get his thoughts in order. He tried to focus on the space just to the left of her shoulder, but she wasn’t having it. She maintained eye contact.

“Cullen, I care for you, and I…” she stopped short with a sigh.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, reaching out but suddenly stopping. The air was too charged, and the move too intimate.

“I’m a mage,” she said bluntly.

“Yes, I’m aware,” he replied. He tried to keep the smirk out of his voice, especially when an attractive blush spread across her full cheeks.

“Cullen, I know what happened in Kirkwall,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I care for you a lot, but… But I’m not selfish. I know your feelings on mages, or your old feelings, and I know you’re getting better. But…Cullen, I want us to be… I just don’t want to…”

She raked her fingers through her hair with a frustrated growl; “This sounded better in my head. Maker, this sounded better when I was going over it with Cassandra on our way home! Why can’t I just say what I’m thinking!?”

“What… what are you thinking?” he asked around the lump in his throat. It was too much to hope.

“I wish I’d had a drink before this,” she murmured, and then rounded on him. “Cullen, I like you a lot, but I don’t want to be a reminder of a bad time for you.”

_She thinks she’ll trigger bad memories._

“So you…”

“I want to be with you, Cullen. And that’s all I wanted to say,” she sighed and tried to brush past him, back towards Skyhold.

“Wait,” he grabbed her wrist, holding it in too strong fingers, but she didn’t wince. She turned to him, her eyes inquisitive. “So you just…admit something, just like that, and walk off?”

“I’ve never been good at this sort of thing,” she said sadly, but she took a step back towards him.

He pulled her the rest of the way, backing her against a higher section of wall. She was so small next to him, and in this intimate closeness, he felt like he towered over her. He didn’t let go of her.

“I’m not either,” he murmured. He ran his thumb over the inside of her wrist, an intimate gesture that made her pulse jump. “But we’re at war. You’re my…our leader, our Inquisitor I never thought it was possible.”

Her breath was unsteady, and he didn’t miss how her legs spread slightly as he moved his hand down to cup hers. There was a silent invitation in her eyes as she looked into his.

“Maker, you’re so beautiful,” he sighed. “This just seems too much to ask, but I want to… I want to so much.”

Her eyes slide closed at his words. He stepped closer, sliding his hands down to her hips. The corset had reshaped her lush curves, and he had to fight the urge to reach behind her and undo the clasps holding it together. He wanted to feel her soft skin against his, but now was not the time.

She was expectant. He cupped her cheek in his hand, reveling a bit in the tiny sigh that escaped from her parted lips. He brushed his thumb across her full lower lip; he could feel her breath slide against the rough pad. His eyes slid closed as he leaned into her. He could feel her unsteady breath on his mouth; he stood primed and ready. This was it. He’d waited, wanted, for this moment. His heartbeat thundered in his chest, his hands on her hip and cheek trembled, his senses were overloaded by the scent of her and the sound of her shuddering breath… He just had to close those last mere fractions of an inch---

“Commander, I have a copy of Sister Leliana’s report.”

The wind went suddenly out of his sails. He could feel Emma sag away from him.

_Damn it._

He rounded on the guard, probably angrier than the situation called for; “What?”

Andraste preserve the man, but he didn’t even flinch from Cullen’s snarl; “Sister Leliana’s report. You wanted it without delay.”

Cullen simply glowered at the man. His eyes went wide and fearful, flickering from his Commander to a point about three inches left of Cullen’s shoulder, what Cullen could only assume was the Inquisitor. He suddenly seemed to realize his mistake and read the situation, as he slowly began to back away.

“Or to your office… Right.”

Cullen smirked a little, but he could feel Emma’s hesitation before she said anything.

“If you need to go back to work, I can—,”

She cut off with a soft moan as he rounded on her, pressing her lips to his. His hands were buried in her hair, cupping her face to his. She didn’t resist; she practically melted against him, grasping at his back. His fingers were too hard, his arms too stiff; he didn’t know his own strength sometimes. He gently released her, allowing his kiss to linger.

She trembled under him. Her eyes were dark with arousal, dilated almost completely, and her lips were slick. Her breath came in rapid-fire gasps and she held onto him like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers. “That was… very nice.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she practically moaned. Her voice was husky, and the sound sent a shot of electricity straight through him. “That was perfect.”

He chuckled; “Don’t stroke my ego for my benefit.”

“Shut up and kiss me again,” she ordered, grabbing his hair tightly.

He gasped. Her breath hitched. He lowered himself to her again; “As my lady commands.”

Where their first kiss was frantic, nervous energy, their second was a heated flush of barely contained passion for each other. He wrapped one arm around her back; the other hand cupped the nape of her neck. The soft skin at the top of the corset was warm and yielding. She opened her mouth, inviting him in, and he swallowed the soft sigh that escaped. His tongue raced out to greet hers. He felt her weight shift and he adjusted his hold so she wouldn’t collapse; he couldn’t help but be thrilled.

_She’s literally swooning._

He pressed her against the stone, using his newly-freed hands to explore. His sword-rough hands gripped her hips, pulling her flush with his. Her soft cry was muffled by his kiss. Her fingers migrated from his hair, dragging gently over his cheekbones and jaw, coming to rest splayed over his chest.

Cullen had never been much of a dancer, but he imagined it was something like this, if one had the right partner. When he shifted, she adjusted. When she pulled, he pushed. Her hips moved against his in little circles and if that wasn’t the greatest feeling he didn’t know what was.

She buried her hands in his hair and yanked him away, not hard enough to be painful.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I need air, you know.”

He grinned and took the opportunity; “Fair enough, my lady.”

She moaned as he leaned into her, pressing a rough kiss against her pulse point. He could feel the little, racing thrum; he could _taste_ her, and she was glorious. He’d never felt so alive, so desperately happy to be wrapped around a woman. His hands wandered; a little thrill leapt in his stomach when his thumb rasped over her breast. She gasped and unconsciously thrust into the caress. He laughed softly, which quickly turned into a moan of his own when her hand ghosted over his hip.

She pulled away, allowing her kiss to linger, and pushed on his chest firmly; “I just want to clear something up.”

“Anything,” he sighed, keeping her hand against his cheek. He leaned into the touch and nuzzled the inside of her wrist. Despite the soft glove, she still gasped. He couldn’t help but revel in her reactions.

 _Maker I want to know_ all _of them._

“Cullen, I care about you,” she repeated her words from earlier, but they were different now. Less hesitant. Huskier. Warmer. Her voice darkened when her eyes—pale blue slashes around pupils dilated with pleasure—met his. “And I want you. But…”

“But?” he asked, hoping the obvious heat in his voice was just his imagination.

“But I’ve never done this before…”

She may as well have thrown a bucket of ice water on him; “Maker, was that… Was that your first kiss?”

“No!” she exclaimed. She was incredulous, but a flush flamed across her cheeks. “It’s not my first kiss. But I’ve never… I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you.”

She was so honest. So open. He could only grin stupidly at her, cupping her cheek with his free hand; “We’ll go at your pace. Tell me to stop, and I stop. No questions asked.”

“Andraste preserve me, but I don’t want to stop,” she whispered.

He lowered his mouth to hers once again. Now that he’d broken the ice, he never wanted to stop kissing her. She opened her lips under his, sliding her tongue softly across his. It was her turn to swallow his moan as she slipped her arms around his shoulders.

“We should,” she paused to catch her breath, her lips mere inches from his. He couldn’t take his eyes off her dangerously heaving chest, still captured in that damnable corset. “We should get back. Leliana and Josephine are going to want my report.”

“You came right to me?”

“I changed first,” she playfully slapped his chest. “But yes. You were my first priority. Now come on. We should…”

“Yes,” he stepped back from the wall, licking his lips when she tossed that waterfall of corn silk hair over her shoulder, exposing that long line of her throat. “I do have a question… the corset?”

“Deliberate,” she shot a smirk over her bare shoulder. “And I have another one in red.”

“Devil woman,” he murmured, languishing in the swish of her hips as she walked away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to do an extended kiss for the first time. I kind of... love how this came out?? 
> 
> And yes, I included some of the dialogue from the first kiss scene in the game. That whole scene was just perfect I could NOT resist. 
> 
> As always, thank you to EVERYONE who reads this!! You are literally the best!!!


	5. When He Wanted Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen discovers a secret fantasy when standing at the War Table with Emma...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little spicy, slightly NSFW

Maker, but they were like teenagers.

Since their first kiss on the battlements, every spare moment was spent together, and Cullen had never felt happier. She was so open with him, so vulnerable, with her ‘I need to see you’s and ‘I missed you’s. It would be easy to fall in love with this woman.

And he felt he might be.

More than just affection, though, the stolen moments they could have were far from the chaste love stories of old. When they were alone (and sometimes not quite alone, but close enough) they couldn’t keep hands off of each other. She’d taken to standing next to him at the war table, and their hips often touched. Small, electric brushes of pinkies during meal times and presses of knees during meetings were often all they could muster in a day.

But on days when they could swing more, they did. He’d never seen her quarters, but she often slipped into his office unannounced, always wearing those sinfully revealing tops of hers, and Maker, it drove him out of his skin. She’d slide on to the desk, a silent invitation, and sit patiently. The longest he’d ever gone in those particular instances was a count of ten before he dove for her, driving his lips into hers. He loved the feeling of her hair in his hands, the sound of her breath going ragged as her arousal heightened.

His dreams changed as well. The nightmares still came, but they were punctuated with flashes and visions of soft, pale flesh yielding under his hands. He saw him pushing her into his pillows every night, and the image was always present like it had been burned into his eyelids every day. He feared he may come apart, or spontaneously combust, but he’d promised Emma. He’d promised her they would go at her pace, and she seemed content where they were. He never pushed, but oh how he wanted to. He wanted to touch her skin, see her come undone beneath him. The dominating, churlish part of him wanted her to scream his name, tears of surrender running down her face, desperate for him…

“Commander!” a voice snapped.

Cullen jumped, being pulled back to the present. It seemed a runner had been trying to get his attention; “I apologize. What is it?”

“Sorry sir,” the soldier replied. “But the Inquisitor has called a meeting in the War Room.”

“Yes of course,” Cullen answered. “Tell her I’ll be right there.”

He gathered his papers and reports, smirking to himself. He secretly wondered what scandalous item clothing she would be wearing today. He sort of hoped it was the blue velvet one that exposed her midriff. He liked that one a lot.

He certainly wasn’t expecting what he saw.

Emma almost looked… cute. It was a petal-pink dress that hit just past her knees, with white lace around the elbow-length sleeves, the collar, and the hem. Tiny pearl buttons dotted down the front, a petal-pink ribbon cinched around her waist that matched the one in her neatly combed hair, and the whole look was complete with a pair of dainty white slippers.

“Cullen,” she greeted him with a wide smile. “Glad you could make it! We’re ready if you are.”

“Of…of course,” he tried to answer as evenly as possible, but it was difficult when she looked like _that._

He learned something about himself that day—mainly, a secret fantasy. He thought the normal clothes she wore with the dark, bold colors and bare skin was so sexy. It took this simple dress and a ribbon in her hair to realize that innocence was a good look on her. The pearls look so flimsy, like a short tug and they would go flying, baring her to him.

He felt a little gross. Was he… did he like this because she looked like a little girl? Was it the contrast from her normal attire? Or was it simply because of how it looked on her, how it seemed to be a perfect fit?

_Andraste save me, she’s so beautiful._

It didn’t take long for him to notice she had one of his iron fist figurines in front of her.  To most people, it looked like she was just idly fidgeting, but he knew better. He’d seen this woman sit so still it was unnerving. She was toying with it, running her fingers up and down its length in an unsubtle and evocative stroke.

He pictured her doing that on other things and fairly whimpered at the thought.

“I fear our Commander has lost his concentration,” Leliana near giggled. Her eyes kept flickering back and forth between him and Emma, and in that moment she knew. Bless the woman though, she didn’t say anything. “It’s all right; I think we’re done here, anyhow.”

“Yes, I will get these missives out as soon as possible,” Josephine made her way towards the door, no less aware of the tension in the room than Leliana.

_Damn it, they were both Bards, weren’t they?_

“See you later, ladies,” Emma called after them.

As soon as the heavy door closed behind the other women, Cullen had his hands on Emma’s hip. He spun her to him, reveling in her little surprised gasp.

“Maker, that dress is sinful on you,” he growled, surprising himself when he realized the possessive snarl he just heard came from him.

“I thought it was cute,” she gasped, tilting her head away from him when he began nibbling on her neck.

“You can’t ever wear that when others are around again,” he said, digging his gloved hands into the thin fabric on her back. “I could barely keep my hands off of you.”

He lifted her bodily to set her on the table, running his hand over her thigh, clenching at the skirt under his hand. He wanted to feel her _skin,_ and this damn dress was so easy to flick aside to reveal her bare thigh.

She gasped, her hands flying up to grip his hair. Her eyes were dark with desire. She moaned under his ministrations; “Good.”

“Excuse me?”

“I saw this dress in Val Royeaux and _immediately_ thought of you,” she whispered wickedly, trailing her fingers down his neck.

“Fiendish woman, you planned this!” he exclaimed around a smile. He leaned into her, bucking unsubtly against her hip. He openly groaned when she spread her thighs for him, allowing him to step between.

“Of course I did,” she sighed. “You have no idea how hard it was to feign interest in the goings on of Lord What’s-His-Name when you were standing _right here_ , and I felt like I was coming apart without your hands on me.”

He growled, nipping at her neck. He would leave marks, and he didn’t care. He brushed his hand over her breast and gasped when she thrust the bare mound into his hand. If he looked closely, he could see the dark circle of her nipple beneath the pale fabric.

_She went without a breast band… I wonder if…_

He put a hand on her thigh, trailing upward under the skirt. He maintained eye contact with her, going agonizingly slow, giving her the opportunity to stop whenever she asked. She never did, but actually thrust her hip towards him.

He had gloves on, but he was sure she wasn’t wearing smalls.

“Daring girl,” he murmured. He shuddered when she scooted closer, pressing her moist center right against the fawn leather of his breeches. He could almost feel her scalding heat, knowing it was bare and right there.

He thought how easy it would be to undo the laces that kept him contained, free himself and plunge into her wet, throbbing cunt. He imagined thrusting into her with abandon, watching her come apart as he circled sword rough fingers around her clit, listening to her keening moans while he brought her over the edge.

Maker, but he needed her. He needed to touch her, to feel her skin on his for a moment… even if it was just a moment.

“Emma, I can’t… I need… where can I—,” he whispered, pressing against her, pulling her closer. He didn’t know how to put what he wanted to say into words, but he hoped she would understand.

She trembled at his words, and Maker he could _smell_ how much she wanted him. He loved when he made her shake with need; it made him feel 10 feet tall.

“Anything,” she gasped. “I need you, Cullen… I need your hands on me, please. Just… anything.”

He moaned, extricating his hands from her hips and fumbling for the tiny pearl buttons that kept her dress closed. He closed his mouth over her collar bone, flicking his tongue against her erratic pulse point; she moved against him in helpless little ruts, bunching her skirt around her hips. He got a few of the pearls unfastened; she thrust her chest out at him, and he made a little strangled noise when her breasts spilled out the collar.

_They’re perfect._

Tentatively, he hefted one of the generous mounds. His hands almost covered them completely; she gasped at the soft touch, emboldening him. His fingers began to work, kneading the soft flesh. Even through his thick leather gloves, he could feel her nipple tighten. He took the other between two fingers, experimenting. Twisting. Pulling. Teasing. Testing her reactions.

He thrilled when she hooked her legs around his hips, trying to pull him closer. He gave a small, breathless laugh before bending to take one of her nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue over that tight pebbled flesh. She let out a guttural moan, her normally soft voice completely changed in her pleasure.

He couldn’t handle it any more. He needed _more._ The growl that came out of him was possessive and primal, and he didn’t care. She was arching into his touch and whimpering and trembling and he needed to feel her.

He yanked his hand away before tearing his gloves off with his teeth, always touching her if possible. When he cupped her breast in his bare hand, his calluses rasping across the sensitive flesh, she drew in a high-pitched gasp. She was grinding against him, keening when his straining erection flicked over her hot core.

“Do you want me to touch you,” Cullen’s voice was dark and deep—something he wasn’t used to. He placed his hand on her inner thigh, close enough to feel the heat emanating from her center. “Here?”

“Maker, yes,” she gasped. The sound sent shocks through his system. “Cullen, _please._ ”

Her little plea almost undid him. He gripped her hips in an almost bruising grip, drawing her close to him.

_Gentle. You have to be gentle._

The little command in the back of his mind slowed him. He loosened his grip by degrees. He slid a bare hand up her inner thigh. The anticipation was almost too much. He pressed his fingers against her outer lips, touching those soft curls.

_I wonder if they’re the same color._

He spread her with his index and ring finger, sliding along her slick folds with the middle. She bit her bottom lip _hard_. He put his other hand against her chin, pulling on it with his thumb (so gently) until she released her lip. She moved closer to him, pulling herself flush, burying her face into his furry mantle. He could hear her keening cries, muffled by the fluffy collar, as he moved his fingers to that tiny bundle of nerves at the top.

_Maker she is so wet._

Her arousal was evident as he slicked his fingers over her clit. He made tight little circles that seemed to drive her wild as she bucked her hips in tandem with his movements. Her breathing grew more rapid and her movements more erratic. With a wicked grin, he pulled his hand away. She drew in a serrated groan; she must have been close before he cut her off just at the peak.

“Why?” she gasped, trembling like a leaf in a storm.

“Because I want to try something,” he murmured in her ear, nipping at the shell in a fit of boldness. “If you’ll let me.”

“Yes, anything,” she pleaded. “Just keep touching me.”

“Patience,” he teased. But it was clear she wasn’t going to last long. He turned his hand, so his wrist faced upward. He positioned one finger just at her opening. She gasped. If it was possible, her eyes grew even darker.”Is this ok?”

“Yes,” she whimpered, frantic than before.

So gently, so carefully, he slid one finger into her. She was slick and warm, and instantly she clamped down tight on him.

“Do you want me to continue?” he whispered in her ear, cupping the back of her head. She nodded frantically. “Then you have to relax, angel.”

She shuddered at the pet name, but she relaxed almost bodily. She sagged against him, clinging to him, and widening her legs to give him easier access. He worked so slowly, getting her used to it, before adding another finger. She grunted, but it didn’t seem to hurt her. Emboldened, he began to crook his fingers in a ‘come here’ gesture until he found the spongy spot on top that made her breath seize.

_There it is._

Working over that spot over and over, reveling in the tight muscles rippling along his fingers, he moved a sword-roughened thumb in little circles over her clit. Her breathing became more erratic, her hips stilled. It didn’t take long. He felt more than heard her come. He felt the clenching muscles and… _Maker_ she was dripping down his hand and wrist. There would be a wet spot on the table when she stood.

_Why does that excite me so much?_

He continued to gently stroke her as she came down, literally gasping for air. She pressed hot, lingering kisses against his lips, sinking her hands into his hair once more.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his hands stilling, but remaining inside her.

“I’m perfect,” she sighed. Her eyes were still darkened, and there was a flush across her cheeks, but she seemed relaxed. Her edge had been taken off, and she sank against his shoulder. “That was amazing.”

“I’m glad,” he murmured, pressing a kiss against her hair. With a gentle pull, he removed his fingers from her, releasing a fresh gush of her fluids. She gasped once more. “I personally rather enjoyed myself, as well.”

She laughed softly, moving to adjust her skirt. He snuck a look at his fingers, which were slick and shiny with her. He smiled privately and replaced his gloves.

_They will smell like her for at least a week._

“Hey, what about you?” she asked, glancing pointedly at his erection.

The bulge in his pants was not subtle, and would likely earn him a few looks, but she shook his head; “Today was about you, angel.”

She grinned and slid off the table. As he predicted there was a wet spot where she sat.

_Someone save me, I want her so badly…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this one... I hope you had fun reading it!
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone taking the time to read this!! You're the best!


	6. When He Lost Her Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen lashes out when he sees Emma go down with the bridge at Adamant Fortress

Curse her damned nobility and selflessness. The siege of a legendary fortress was not the time to respond to ‘stay safe’ with ‘I’ll try but the men come first, after all’. He knew deep in his heart, he would have said the same in her place, but it was hard to see her smile at him—that beautiful smile he loved so much—and watch her wander into danger like it was nothing.

He supposed to her, it was nothing. She did this _every day,_ and yet he never worried like this until this very moment. He knew she was competent. He knew her power. But something didn’t sit right with him, and he hated not knowing. He sighed and returned to the battle, probably more ruthless than he should have been. His pounding, adrenalin-fueled heart was a constant mantra, a silent plea— _Please, come back safe. Come back safe. Please…_

He lost himself in the dance of battle, the only dance he’d ever excelled at. He coordinated the siege, he commanded the Inquisitor’s companions that didn’t venture into the fortress with her, and he corresponded with Ser Barris who moved the Templars in perfect formation, but something continued to nag at him. The sound of crackling ice from the ramparts meant Emma was doing her part, and his men were getting a foothold.

Apparently, Emma said _something_ to the Grey Warden warriors, because when Cullen’s men came across them, they surrendered to the Inquisition without question. As they made their way across the fortress, it became clear that thanks to their Inquisitor, they would be victorious. The men could sense it, he thought, and fought valiantly.

There was a horrific roar, one Cullen recognized. Above them, that dragon, the Archdemon from Haven, was swooping on the central courtyard. The sickly green light of a rift reflected on the creature’s scales. Then, as if her presence summoned his gaze, he saw her.

_Emma’s up there._

Erimond and Clarel were having a magic duel on the upper Ramparts; the older mages were throwing spells from either side. The dragon continued to circle the fortress. Cullen had his men scatter, but his attention was elsewhere. He thought of Emma’s words…

_“I’ll be fine… Just keep everyone else safe. Promise me, Cullen.”_

He growled to himself and bellowed orders into the crowd; they had to get to cover and fast. And then, if they could swing it, to the central courtyard. He spared one more gaze to the bridge…and froze in horror.

Emma was running out on to the bridge. Her slash of white armor and blonde hair was like a torch in the darkness. She was after Erimond, and she was single-minded. He felt like his heart had stopped, and the whole world slowed.

With a flash of electricity, the dragon screeched in pain and tried to take off. The bridge was collapsing—this fortress was ancient, after all, and they had spent the better part of the night tearing into it with modern siege equipment. Problem was, Emma was just over the parts that were starting to fall. She scrambled for the relative safety of the ramparts, but he could see she wouldn’t make it.

She would fall.

The bridge fell from under her feet and she started to plummet to the ground. He could only watch. He wouldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe. He needed to get to her… he needed to save her. But how? Before he could properly formulate a plan, no matter how ludicrous, there was a bright green light and the distant-thunder sound of a rift. Then, the rocks crashed where Emma had just fallen.

“NO!” his voice sounded so broken he didn’t recognize it. His eyes were wide and tears ran unbidden down his cheeks, though he didn’t cry.

“Commander?” Ser Barris had seen it too, and there was a grief in his eyes Cullen refused to acknowledge.

“Ser Barris, take the men deeper into the fortress,” Cullen ordered. “I’m taking a contingent and we’re going to find the Inquisitor.”

With a graceful swoop of its long body, the Archdemon flew away from Adamant. The archers tried to pepper it with arrows, but stopped pitifully after two unsuccessful volleys. The arrows were too precious a resource, and there were still enthralled mages to deal with.

Cullen and about 20 soldiers started to work on the collapsed section of the bridge. It was back-breaking work, and thankfully the fighting seemed to be dying off. Dripping with sweat, his muscles screaming at him, Cullen continued to push the heavy rocks away, looking for any sign of the Inquisitor. The men seemed to be losing hope. Reports continued to come—there was no sign of her body.

“Commander!” one man called. Cullen scrambled over the rubble to where the soldier kneeled. In his hand, he held a silver pendant.

“That’s Em… the Inquisitor’s,” Cullen murmured, drawing in a serrated breath. A steel fist closed around his heart. The edges of his vision blurred and darkened. He took the delicate pendant—a silver-cast snowdrop. Emma’s favorite flower; the necklace was a gift from her mother. She never took the thing off. “Where was it?”

“I found it here,” he indicated a small patch of bare land next to a monstrous slab of wall. No men here—even the Iron Bull—could lift it. If she was under it, she was dead. “What should we do.”

“Call off the search,” he deadpanned. He had to maintain his command, and they had a fortress to hold, even while his heart broke into tiny pieces.

Cassandra had been with him during the siege, and she’d helped him search. And when she saw that tiny necklace—the one she’d admired so many times—she near burst into tears on the spot; “Cullen. That’s…”

“Yes,” without the men—just Cassandra—he felt he could weep. He clutched the necklace in his hand. It was all he had left. He knew the men would falter; her companions would be devastated. They would have to find a new Inquisitor.

Maker, a new Inquisitor. The mere thought made him want to punch something very _very_ hard.

“We don’t know,” Cassandra said. “There were reports of a rift. She may have fallen through.”

“Oh, what a _fantastic_ alternative,” he snapped, rounding on her. The small, logical part of him knew he was unfairly lashing out. The rest of him, the part that wanted to hold Emma—if only to see her body—didn’t care. “Those rifts lead to the Fade!”

“I know, Cullen,” Cassandra’s voice lowered and her eyes darkened. She was mad.

_Let her be mad._

“So the outcome is thus—she’s crushed and dead and we’ll never find her; or she fell into the Fade, is dead and we’ll never find her!”

“Don’t say that!” Cassandra shouted. “We have to believe she’ll come out of this alive! She always does!”

“One does not live on borrowed time for long,” Cullen replied darkly. He could feel the desperate agony lapping at the edge of his mind. He could feel that tiny light she’d given him being snuffed out. “Maybe this is how it was meant to be!”

“Cullen,” Cassandra’s voice had softened.

“Maker, why did I ever believe—”

“Cullen!”

“So that’s it; we grieve and find a new Inquisitor and move on… That’s all we can do.”

“Cullen!”

“What!?”

He rounded on Cassandra and froze when her palm slapped across his cheek with a deafening crack. She was shaking, tears running down her cheeks; “Don’t you _dare_ talk to me of grief.”

“Cassandra, I--,”

“NO!” she shouted, grabbing the collar of his breastplate. She leaned dangerously toward him and somehow managed to make him feel two feet tall, despite being a solid head or so shorter than him. “It’s my turn to talk. She was… IS my best friend. I love her. I won’t believe that she won’t make it out of this, somehow. Not unless I see it with my own eyes! And I won’t hear you do this! Not to her, not to yourself.”

“Myself?”

“You’re blaming yourself,” her voice was still hard and blunt, but quieter. She released him and stepped away. “I have every reason to believe the Inquisitor is not buried here—we would have found some evidence beyond a pendant by now, I’m sure. In the mean time, we should find that Magistrate. _When_ Emma comes back, she will want to deal with him.”

Cullen sighed, and started the search; it didn’t take long to start the men combing for Erimond. Cullen’s heart wasn’t in the search, though, and he took to supervising it quickly. He turned to Cassandra; “Thank you.”

She nodded; “I should head back. Send a runner if you find Erimond.”

He nodded back. Part of him still dreaded finding Emma; he highly doubted it, but every time he saw a slash of white, his heart stopped again. After a grueling half hour, they dug the unconscious Magistrate from under a pile of rubble.

“Shall we, sir?” one of his lieutenants pointed a sword at the man’s throat.

“No,” Cullen’s voice was a rasping deadpan. It had been a long day, and the after-battle quiet just made it that much worse. “The Inquisitor will want to handle him herself.”

The unspoken fear on everyone’s mind passed through the group like a pall.

_But if she doesn’t come back? Then what?_

Cullen sighed and began to prepare a runner when one from the central courtyard came scrambling over the rubble; “Commander! The Inquisitor! She’s returned to us!”

It took a moment for the news to sink in.

_Emma’s back. She’s alive. She’s here… she’s alive._

_She’s alive._

“Wait here. Guard the prisoner; I’ll brief them myself,” Cullen ordered before setting off in a dead run.

It was a short run, but every step felt like he was running through syrup; so much so, actually, he thought for a moment he was dreaming. But sure enough, he came to the courtyard. There was no sign of the rift, or demons, or anything. Emma was on a raised platform in the center. A group of Wardens were kneeling at her feet, their fists over their heart in a symbol of allegiance. Hawke was striding purposefully away from the crowd, and Warden Stroud was nowhere to be found.

Honestly, she looked so heroic, so… _big_ in that moment, he felt like he shouldn’t approach. She was their shining beacon, the symbol for all of Thedas… how was he supposed to keep her? How selfish could he be?

The feeling was fleeting, because the second she made eye contact, she fled from the group, sprinting across the space between them. He grinned, tears prickling at the corners of his vision as he ran to meet her. He imagined throwing themselves into a passionate embrace, maybe a kiss, like the heroes at the end of a story…

But of course, reality hardly lived up to fantasy. She slowed as she approached. Instead of embracing, she slid her hand into his. He used his free hand to cup her face, taking quick stock; she seemed fine, if a little bloodied, bruised, and singed, but fine. There was a strange, unblinking quality to her eyes, like she never wanted to close them again.

His brows drew inward in askance. They said nothing—just feeling this flesh and blood woman, with the warmth of her skin under his hand, was enough to dispel any doubt he had. She smiled softly, but in her crystal-blue eyes, there was a promise.

_Later._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I would just like to thank everyone for reading!! Especially commenters (you make my day!!) These next couple chapters will be direct continuations of one another and will be decidedly plotty (I'm sorry) More fun to come later, though, I promise. 
> 
> This chapter gave me so much hell, though.


	7. When He Lost Her Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the trip back to Skyhold, Cullen learns about one of Emma's greatest fears

The trip back to Skyhold wouldn’t be a long one, but with a procession of wounded soldiers, prisoners, and of course new Warden recruits, it would be a tedious and slow one. He wished he wasn’t expected to march at the head of his troops, behind Emma and her party. He wanted… well, he wanted to be with her, but something told him she was avoiding him. So he kept his sleek black stallion back with his men, while she rode her glimmering white mare at the head, looking for all the world like the legendary hero the people thought her to be.

It was the second day of their predicted four-day journey. The sun was setting and they were coming up on a good campsite—water, shelter, dry ground. It was really all they needed, so they stopped. Cullen immediately set about delegating the able-bodied in his command; within an hour, the tents were up, fires had been built, and rations distributed. Emma was moving amongst the wounded with a Chantry sister, and he could tell by her world-weary expression, they were blessing the dead. Dorian trailed behind her, giving a Mortalitasi’s rite for the departed. It seemed to comfort her, if a little.

By the time full night had fallen, watch schedules set, and the prisoners and wounded seen to, Emma had long retreated to her tent.

_She skipped dinner again._

He hadn’t seen her eat once since they’d left Adamant. She rarely spoke, and when she did, it was in that Inquisitor’s voice. He recognized it, because it was remarkably similar to the one he used on his men. He wanted to go to her. He wanted… He caught Cassandra’s eye, and she shook her head. He agreed. It wasn’t time yet—she would come to him when she was ready. Cullen felt he couldn’t sleep, so he set himself on the first watch.

~~~

It was very late; the moon was high in the sky. He couldn’t sleep.

The night was so quiet, only the sound of the lake and night birds permeated it. He lay in his cot, staring at the ceiling of his tent, completely awake. He sighed to himself, trying to get comfortable. It took about another 30 seconds before he decided it was futile and he would take a walk. He stamped into his boots, tossed his coat over his shirtsleeves, and began meandering about the camp.

The watch was quiet and vigilant, just how he’d trained them. He gave himself a private smile before finding himself meandering to Emma’s tent. He paused—she would be asleep. She’d seemed so exhausted; he shouldn’t wake her, but…

He heard a sharp, sobbing gasp from inside her tent. It sounded like she was trying to catch her breath; his heart nearly stopped. He knew that sound—she’d had a nightmare, and by the sounds of it, it was particularly bad.

He wanted to go to her, but something stupid was stopping him. He wasn’t sure what exactly that _was,_ but he knew it was stupid, because if he was a smart man, he would be in that tent. If he was a smart man, he would be holding her and trying to banish her bad dreams.

But he supposed he wasn’t a smart man, so he lingered outside and waiting for the soft sounds of her breathing to even out before moving on.

But that never happened. Instead, it seemed she had the same idea he did, because it didn’t take her long to sweep out of her tent with a frustrated look on her face. She turned and nearly collided into his chest.

“Cullen!” she whispered, though her eyes were surprised. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and leaned away from him slightly.

He’d been right. She was avoiding him.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked frankly, his voice low.

“No,” she sighed, dropping her arms. He recognized her silky robe from Skyhold, and somehow, in the middle of nowhere, bathed in moonlight, it just made her look so much more exposed. It made him want to take her into his arms and just… make it all stop. Make it go away for just a moment.

“Come on,” he offered. “Walk with me.”

He placed his hand on the small of her back. She leaned into his touch; her arms remained crossed, but she softened them. She looked so…vulnerable in that moment. He moved his hand from a tentative touch on her back so he could hug her to his side.

He led her to the lakeside, finding an outcropping of rock. He sat, and patted the space next to him. She sank gracelessly to sit next to him, touching her thigh to his. A little thrill in his chest jumped at the casual, intimate contact.

“What happened in the Fade?” he asked without preamble.

“What makes you think _anything_ happened in the Fade?”

“For one, it’s the Fade,” he shot back, irritated at her avoidance. “For two, well… Emma, you’ve always been so open with me. We haven’t known each other long, but there has never been a time when you couldn’t talk to me. And you’ve been avoiding me.”

“Was I that obvious?” she asked. Her smile did not touch her eyes.

“No,” he answered. “But I know you.”

She sighed; “You really want this? You want this on you?”

“Yes.” He was shocked at how _honest_ his answer was. He wanted everything from her— burdens and sorrows just as much as he wanted joy and love. He looped and arm around her waist, his hand coming to rest at her hip, and pulled her closer. “Now. Tell me.”

She pulled in a shuddering breath, turning further inward on herself. She gazed out at the lake, the moonlight washing out her features.

“There was a fear demon.”

Cullen drew in a sharp gasp—he’d never had the displeasure of seeing a fear demon up close, but he heard rumors. They were literally nightmares made real.

“Being in the Fade, physically, is hard enough,” she continued. “But we were in… in _its_ domain. It showed us awful images, what we feared most. Some were silly—I can handle spiders, as much as I hate them—but others. It was too much. But Sera and Dorian and Blackwall… even Hawke and Stroud… they were all so scared. What was I supposed to do?”

“So you remained strong,” he offered. She did not disagree. He tried to imagine what that must have been like—being battered on all sides by the exact image of your greatest fears, and being forced to remain calm and collected; to act like you were unaffected when all you wanted to do was sit and cry was a feeling he knew well.

“I had to,” she continued. “It almost worked. For a long time, I managed to keep my thoughts shielded from the demon.”

“But?”

“I didn’t last,” she sighed. He could hear tears in her voice. “We were locked in combat, my memories were coming back--,”

“You got your memories?” he asked, forgetting her telling for a moment.

“Yes, and you can read all about them in my report,” she murmured bitterly.

“Sorry,” he said. He ran an affectionate hand through her hair, lovingly rubbing at that place at the base of her skull that _always_ calmed her. It worked; she leaned into the touch and relaxed slightly. “Please, continue.”

“Mmm, I’ll tell you anything if you keep doing that.”

“Emma,” he chastised, fighting and failing to keep the fond laughter out of his tone.

“All right,” there was a smile to her voice, and she turned more towards him. She snuck her hand out to rest on his thigh. “Just never stop touching my hair, please?”

“You have my word,” he retorted, mocking his own heroic tone.

It worked. She laughed lightly before continuing; “We were fighting, and the Divine… or the spirit who took the Divine’s form was guiding us. All around, I was assaulted by the nightmares of dreamers. Finally, the wards on my mind broke, and all I could see…”

She paused. Her whole body shook, tensing as if to spring.

“Calm down, angel,” he rubbed easy, tender circles on her back. “Take your time.”

“When I was at Therinfal, I was pulled into the Fade the old fashioned way,” she continued. “To mess with my mind, to pull me further in, the Envy demon slit your throat. Or rather, an image of you. I thought, at the time, it simply meant to unnerve me, to give me some hint at its plan. It _was_ rather proud of that plan. But maybe… Maybe it was trying to tell me something. Something I couldn’t admit to myself at the time.

“After this, after Adamant, I’m sure now. Because once the Fear demon broke through my barriers, I saw it all. I heard things—a dragon’s call, its flapping wings. I heard water rushing in, saw it lapping at my ankles and steadily rising. I heard the wind howling, and I felt… cold. Like I would never be warm again.

“But mostly, I saw you. The fears… they took on different forms. They sort of…shifted back and forth between different images. I couldn’t quite pinpoint them, but when I killed one… Cullen, I looked down and it was you. And you looked so hurt, so betrayed; it took all my self-control not to embrace the… _thing_ stealing your form. And I very nearly couldn’t control myself. For a horrible moment, I couldn’t go on. I wanted to die there.”

Cullen’s hand tensed. He thought back to a _similar_ nightmare he’d had not long ago. Were their fears so similar…?

“I know it seems silly,” she sighed with a dark, humorless laugh. “But you were right. I have been avoiding you. My greatest fear is _losing_ you? Killing you? Every instinct, everything I was ever taught, is telling me that it’s time to sit and reflect. But those teachings aren’t relevant anymore.

“I walk a bloody path, Cullen. If I come out on the other side of this alive, it will be a miracle. And I fear that the most. I’m so weak as to fear my own death, even when I’ve stared it in the face so many times. But as much as I fear for my life, I fear for yours more. I couldn’t bear to lose you. Not now, not ever.”

There was a pregnant pause. Neither of them said anything for a full minute. He didn’t know what to say—her honesty always threw him for a loop, and he felt like he’d been knocked full of his feet with the weight of her confession. Finally, she turned to him, taking his hands into hers.

“I,” she began. Tears had started running down her cheeks. “I want to stay with you, Cullen. For as long as you’ll have me, I’m yours.”

He pulled his hands from hers and cupped her cheeks. Her eyes slid closed, and her tears came more freely. Even though he ached at her pain, he couldn’t help but secretly love that he was the only one who saw this side of her.

“That’s my line,” he laughed softly. She let out a tiny, breathless laugh. He leaned forward to kiss her tears away, trying desperately to contain his own.

They fell silent, simply gazing into each other’s eyes like lovelorn children. The wind bit at their bare skin, but he didn’t mind. He snuggled her closer, holding her tightly. He committed to memory everything there was about her—her scent, the feel of her hair in his fingers, the sound of her tiny, breathless sobs in his ear… everything.

_I’m hooked now. Everything I am, I will devote to this woman._

“Cullen?”

“Yeah?” Their voices were hushed and tentative.

“Why ‘angel’?”

He laughed shyly, a flush creeping across his cheeks. He’d hoped she hadn’t noticed.

“It’s silly,” he sighed, burying his face in her hair. He remembered back to his childhood, how in love (and at the time, completely gross) his parents had seemed to him.  “But… It’s what my father called my mother.”

She tensed, and for half a moment he feared he’d said too much. Then, finally, she relaxed against him, clinging to his shirt with frantic, desperate hands.

“I like that,” she whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nightmare referred to is from Chapter 3. 
> 
> So... kind of dramatic for this two-parter. Tell me what you think, do you want more spicy chapters or do you like character fluff like this?  
> Let me know!! I aim to please. 
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone for reading!! Every time I see new hits and Kudos, you're literally making my day!!


	8. When He Danced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shocking guest makes an appearance at Halamshiral, and Cullen manages to find deeper meaning in his relationship with Emma.

If the Maker and everyone present was his witness, he was never stepping foot in Halamshiral _ever_ again. He was surrounded by tittering nobles (men and women; go figure) who were all interested in snagging the Commander of the Inquisition for themselves or their daughters. He wore the tight-fitting uniform coat of the Inquisition, though, so he represented them. So he tried to be as polite as possible.

_They’re making it more difficult than ever, really. There is_ nothing _good about this ball._

He, of course, revised his thoughts when Emma swept across the Grand Ballroom. She looked positively radiant—swathed in diaphanous folds of shimmering violet satin, tightly cinched into an unforgiving-looking corset, her golden hair pinned back from her silver mask in a simple knot… She looked like a noblewoman.

She looked like she belonged.

Even precariously perched on her dancing slippers as she was, she moved with such grace. When she slipped out for a few moments to conduct her business, she swept back into the ballroom just in time, like she’d been there the whole time. She danced with dukes and duchesses, wearing a pretty (if guarded) smile the whole time.

He privately gloated to himself; only he ever got to see that unguarded smile she reserved especially for him. They may see her now, full dressed and made up—the proverbial Belle of the Ball—but he would get to see her later as she really was; carrying her shoes, her hair let down, mask pushed up to her forehead, and corset slightly loosened, she would toss her bare feet onto his lap as the rode back to the inn. She would most like whine the whole time about how badly her feet hurt and how much of a headache she had and how she couldn’t wait to lay in her bed and sleep for days.

Of course, on top of seeing her move effortlessly through the motions of the Game, he worried. Every time she wasn’t in his sight, no matter how necessary, he feared that she’d been caught, and she would be found with a dagger in her back. The thought nearly killed him.

“You must be the Commander,” a lilting voice said from somewhere around his left shoulder.

“Excuse me?” he asked, whirling on the woman.

She was quite lovely. Wheat colored, graying hair was tied into an austere, braided style; her eyes were a strange sort of sea-green; she had a milk-and-honey complexion and wore a simple, emerald gown in the Marcher style. Her mask was as simple as the rest of her. Cullen instantly liked her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to intrude on your private time. It just looked like you could use some company.”

“Feel free,” Cullen offered.

“Thank you.” Her accent was strange—her consonants were flat, like Varric’s, but she pulled up on the edges of some words, a lot like Orlesians. He recognized it from somewhere.

The woman smiled a crooked grin up at him, and then turned again to the crowd of dancers; “Lovely, isn’t she?”

“Who?” Cullen returned a little too quickly. He felt himself flush; he’d been staring.

“Why, the woman you can’t keep your eyes off of,” the woman laughed behind her long, slim hand. “It’s all right if you admit it. I’ll consider it a compliment.”

Cullen froze. He barely dared to breathe. He now knew where he recognized her accent—it was Emma’s, after all; “Lady Trevelyan?”

“Oh, please, Emilie, my dear boy,” her laugh came out in a short, refined burst. She put her hand out for him to take. He closed his big fingers (they looked monstrous next to that slim hand of hers) around hers and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. Lady Trevelyan, much to his surprise, giggled like a school girl. “My, but you are charming.”

“I apologize for my earlier rudeness, my lady,” his voice was warm, but formal.

“Emilie,” she corrected once more. “And think nothing of it. I’m keeping a touch of secrecy on purpose.”

“May I ask why?”

“You’re so formal,” she laughed once more. When she smiled, she reminded him so much of Emma. “You remind me of Leopold.”

“That’s… Emma’s father?”

“Yes, my bull of a husband, though where he’s disappeared to, I can’t say,” Emilie rattled off. She then turned back towards the dance floor, a gentle hand on Cullen’s arm. “When we heard the Inquisitor was going to be here, we had to respond to our invitation. We haven’t seen our daughter in…some years.”

“Since she went to the Circle?” Cullen asked, suddenly intrigued. Emma didn’t speak much of her life before the Inquisition, and even less of it before the Circle.

“Actually, Ostwick was quite lenient with their mages up until the rebellion,” Emilie brushed a hand over her voluminous skirt, correcting an imaginary wrinkle. Cullen couldn’t help but smile as he recognized one of Emma’s few nervous tics. “Last time we saw her was her twenty-first birthday. She was allowed to take a Templar home with her to celebrate. Then, she wrote us to say she was going to Kirkwall. Next thing we knew, the Chantry had been blown up and the Circles had fallen.”

“And the next time you heard from Emma--.”

“She said she was going to be a member of the Conclave, as one of the only Enchanters left from the Free Marches. After that, we feared for our baby’s life,” Emilie swallowed hard before continuing. Cullen placed his hand over hers. She smiled gently at him, squeezing his arm slightly. “But we heard that a Trevelyan daughter was at the head of the Inquisition, and we just knew. She wrote us a few times, but she’s kept us at arm’s length.

“Believe me, I understand. If our places were switched, I would almost hope Emma got news of my death rather than worry, or worse, come to my side. But when we heard the news… we had to see her.”

“Would you like me to fetch her?” Cullen asked.

“No, darling,” Emilie answered. There were barely-contained tears in her voice. “She plays the Game, and she plays it most dangerously this night. We would be an unnecessary distraction. We just wanted to see her, and I wanted to meet you.”

“Me?” Cullen was taken aback. Did Emma tell her parents of them? “We… we haven’t been seeing each other that long.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” Emilie remarked. “But the Inquisitor and her Commander? It makes for a romantic story, and romantic tales travel far, my dear. Please, don’t tell her we were here. Now, I thank you for indulging an old woman, but I really must find my husband before we start a scandal.”

Cullen smiled and bowed lightly at the waist; “It’s been a pleasure, Emilie.”

Emilie giggled and curtseyed; “You really are charming. My Emma is a lucky girl. Until we meet again, Commander.”

~~~

The Grand Duchess Florianne had been taken into custody, the empire had been brought into a tentative peace with the three main players in a very public alliance, and the tension of the night had been eased. Now, the party could really begin; at least, that’s how the Orlesian nobility saw it.

Cullen saw none of Emilie or her husband for the remainder of the night; he supposed they really did just want to see their daughter and leave. He hadn’t seen his family in a long time, either, but that was by choice. He had no idea how Emma would feel about it.

The music was lively and cheerful, and _powerful_ Orlesian wine was being passed as freely as water goblets. He took one sip of the plum-colored liquid and immediately decided he would be better off with the Hanged Man’s house whiskey than whatever _that_ was.

He tried to find Emma, but she’d been absorbed into the crowd. Midnight was approaching quickly; the unanimous chant of ‘ _Unmask!’_ would soon fill the ballroom, and he didn’t really want to be alone in a room with rowdy, drunken nobles flinging metal masks around. He made his way to an isolated balcony, but was surprised to see it wasn’t so isolated.

Morrigan was sauntering away from the lone figure leaning on the railing; the mage shot him a knowing look before joining the crowd once more. He was genuinely shocked that Emma had managed to get away; he went to join her on the balcony. She’d pulled her hair out of the neat knot and her mask was discarded somewhere. Her slippers were sitting next to her, thrown haphazardly. He had to smile—the mask of the Inquisitor was off, and his Emma stood before him.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he came to stand next to her. She was gazing somewhere into the middle-distance. She smiled at him out of the corner of her eye, but it didn’t linger. “Are you all right?”

She sighed; “It’s just been a long night, is all. I would give anything to be out of this dress and in bed.”

He chuckled, placing a gentle hand at the small of her back; “I was worried about you tonight. Every time you were out of my sight…”

“I worried for you too,” Emma turned to him, leaning into his side. He slid an arm around her waist and held her tight. She smirked up at him. “Meeting my mother can be a daunting task, after all.”

“So when did you know?”

“When I looked up at you from the dance floor and saw you talking to her,” she laughed. “My mother may have grown up steeped in the Game, but she forgets she’s owned that emerald gown since I was a girl. It has passed from being in fashion to out of date to charmingly vintage and back again about five or six times since then, of course. But when I saw her talking to you… Something about the conversation seemed private. And I was working, after all.”

Cullen laughed aloud; Emma and her mother were so similar, it was almost eerie; “She didn’t want to endanger you. She knew the importance of tonight.”

“I miss her,” Emma said frankly. “Maybe… Maybe I should invite her and the family to Skyhold when all this is over.”

“I think she’d like that,” Cullen answered. The music inside turned slow and melodic. He saw couples pairing off on the dance floor. The intimate music floated out into their little hiding spot and Cullen saw the opportunity. “You know, we may never have another opportunity, so I must ask… May I have this dance?”

He took her hand in his, tugging gently. She smiled so brightly, he felt his breath catch; “I thought you didn’t dance.”

“Well, I suppose an exception can be made,” Cullen snarked. She allowed herself to be spun into a loose embrace. He slid a hand over the curve of her waist, coming to relax at her hip. She slid her hand over his chest, resting it against his neck. Cupping her other hand, he began to lead her in a slow waltz.

He was afraid the worst would happen—they would look stiff and awkward, he would tread on her bare toes, or they would get hopelessly tangled in her skirts. But she was a good dancer, and he wasn’t exactly bad, so they managed to move in a fluid, if simple, waltz. Little was said; she simply gazed up at him with that honest smile of hers, her eyes so open it _hurt_ as she stepped closer to him. A light bit of pressure from him, and she spun outward, her feather-light skirt flaring up around her scandalously bare legs and feet.

“You’re not so bad, Commander,” she teased when he received her back into his chest.

“Well, I appreciate your poor taste in dance partners,” he shot back.

Even when the song changed, they kept up their dance. She sighed and pressed her head against his chest; such an intimate gesture made his heart race. She could obviously hear it, for a silent sigh of a laugh escaped her lips; “You know, I could stay like this forever.”

“What happened to getting out of this dress and into bed?”

“All of it can be sacrificed if I can just stay here, where it’s safe and you’re here, and you’re holding me,” she gazed up at him, her bright blue eyes wide. “And I feel so loved.”

Their feet had stopped, but Cullen still felt like the balcony was spinning with them. With no shoes, and him with proper dress boots, she was so tiny next to him. His heart was jumping in his chest, and dangerous tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

_Say something, you idiot!_

He couldn’t even obey his own thoughts; his voice was frozen. He opened and closed his mouth several times, but it was just… the way she said it. His brows drew together and he drew in a shuddering breath. Her own breath was heaving, and he cupped her face, drawing her close to him. Her eyes became hooded and dark, and he lowered himself into a kiss.

It was unlike any kiss they’d ever shared; it wasn’t frantic, or heated, but unbearably sweet and tender. A soft slide of lips. He kissed her like he would never kiss her again. Her hands had snuck up to cup his, running up his arms and settling around his neck.

He felt her lips trembling and a few wet tears hit his knuckles, but he didn’t mind. He ran affectionate fingers through her long tresses, breaking the kiss only for short bursts of air before pressing in once again. She was so _beautiful_ and so sweet and she was his. His heart felt fit to burst.

_She was his._

“You are loved, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that Emma wore a pretty party dress and you can't convince me otherwise. I loathed those awful Nutcracker get-ups on the ladies (Cullen and Dorian definitely made them work) 
> 
> Emma's parents and family, as well as her relationship with them, is entirely my thing and is in no way canon.
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone who continues to put up with my mushy crap!!! I love you all!!


	9. When He Whisked Her Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen takes Emma to his favorite boyhood haunt, and while there they do some... "exploring."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly spicy NSFW chapter for Leasalla, Bunsabun, and Wendy. You ladies(?) make writing this worth it!!!

Maker it was _hot._ He had no idea it could get this hot in the mountains, but the sweltering nights and worse days were getting to everyone, including the normally unflappable Commander. When Emma, Josephine and Leliana had taken to wearing shockingly revealing clothing, he’d insisted on keeping his armor.

That conviction had lasted about 30 seconds before he was in breeches and shirt sleeves. Did he care that his men saw him like that? Absolutely. Did it really matter, in the grand scheme? Probably not. So he chose _not_ dying of heat stroke before he turned 32.

He hoped the heat wave would end soon, mostly for his comfort; but also because Emma had taken to wearing these _atrociously_ short breeches or sinfully revealing dresses. He’d certainly seen more bare skin than _that_ in his life, but Maker, it made him want to go out of his skin.

Besides the nightmares, most of his dreams were heated flashes of bare skin under sword-roughened hands before he woke up panting. He _had_ to get away.

But not from her.

Once again, he’d promised her they’d go at her pace. Besides the stolen kiss here and there, and the intimate encounter in the War Room, they’d never gone very far. It didn’t matter to him, but he was afraid he would lose control if they didn’t get away from it all.

He gazed at the report on his desk—there were some minor things to take care of in Ferelden, and there wasn’t much to do in Skyhold. Since the political unrest in Orlais had been solved, he thought of getting away with Emma, if only for a few days. He would ask her today, if he could manage.

Unfortunately, before he could get up the nerve, she swept into his office, wearing that flimsy lilac-colored dress she’d been favoring lately; “Maker, it’s sweltering in here!”

He knotted his hands together; “Don’t have much choice… Actually, I was hoping you’d stop by today.”

“Aww, it’s nice to be missed,” she teased, taking up one of his reports and fanning herself with it. “Were you waiting here for me? Because you could have come found me.”

“Yes,” he breathed. He stared at her dress, just coming down to her mid-thigh. It was so light, it looked like a sharp tug and it would tear clear away. He licked his lips and tried to make eye contact. It took him a while to realize he’d been staring…and what exactly he said. “I mean no!”

“I’m sorry?” she turned towards the door. “I can…come back.”

“Oh, Maker’s Breath,” he cursed, raking his hands through his hair. The heat had unleashed some of the curls he tried so hard to comb out every day. “I meant to come find you today. I have some business in Ferelden, and I was hoping you would accompany me.”

“So, a contingent of soldiers and some of my companions, or?”

“No,” he swept her ponytail off her shoulder. “Just us. If… if that’s agreeable.”

“Cullen,” she replied softly. She laced her fingers with his, and he felt his breath hitch. “That sounds perfect. It’s been… huh. We’ve never really been alone anywhere, have we?”

“We haven’t had time, until now,” he moved his hands to her hips, drawing her close. She gasped when he lowered himself to her, their lips mere inches apart. He quirked his lip in a smirk as her breathing accelerated. Testing his luck, he ran his knuckles up her arm, barely brushing the side of her breast with his fingertips. Her breathing stopped short for a few seconds before continuing in deep gasps. “Maker, I love that I affect you, so.”

“Really?” she gasped, her voice a ragged whisper. “Because I fear I’m going to hyperventilate one of these days.”

He laughed roughly, kissing her gently before pulling back. It wasn’t enough.

_Maker, it’s never enough._

“We should discuss things that need doing with the other Council members,” Cullen offered. She blinked slowly, seeming dazed. “We can leave in the morning, Maker willing before it gets hot.”

“Sounds good,” she sighed, pressing her hands into his sides. “Can’t wait.”

~~~

The ride to Ferelden was even hotter than Skyhold. Cullen didn’t think it was possible. The sun beat down on the backs of their necks and their horses had to stop frequently to get a drink in the shade. He watched heat radiate off the road in front of them; Emma’s pale shoulders had taken on a painful pink shine. She didn’t seem to mind. Actually, he’d never seen her so happy or so free.

Without soldiers and companions around, she talked freely. And _endlessly._ He didn’t care, really. He loved hearing her voice, and he loved hearing about her experiences in the Circle.

“So let me get this straight,” Cullen laughed. “Your mother wanted to have your coming out party, even though you were at the Circle?”

“Don’t let her calm demeanor at the party fool you,” Emma answered. “She’s single-minded—when she wants something, she takes it. Maker, I’m pretty sure the Knight Commander openly _wept_ when mother was done with him.”

“ I’ve met Knight Commander Taft, and I’m pretty sure he never wept a day in his life.”

Emma straightened in her saddle, a surprisingly accurate depiction of Lady Trevelyan the older; “’Now you listen here, _Taft,_ my daughter _will_ have her ball if I have to drag the decorators to this tiny little tower and throw it here! Trust me, young man, you wouldn’t want that.’ Funny thing is, Mother is about 12 years younger than Taft.”

“So what did he do?” Cullen asked.

“Well, he tried to protest. He said I was just an apprentice and they didn’t have the Templars to spare,” Emma continued. “But my mother wouldn’t hear of it. The next day, she was measuring his office for the live Peacock pens and the dozen life-sized swan ice sculptures. That’s what she told him anyway. Needless to say, they managed to scrounge up a few Templars to take me home for my ball.”

“And you had a debutante ball?” Cullen snorted under his breath. “Sorry, but I just can’t see you in an ugly white gown. Er… no offense.”

“Oh none taken,” Emma giggled. “I’ve never seen a _pretty_ debutante gown.”

“So your mother is Orlesian?”

“Born and raised in Val Royeaux. Actually, I was born in Val Royeaux—well, Erik and me.”

“Erik is your brother.”

“My twin, actually,” Emma returned.

“I’ve never met a pair of twins,” he replied. He cocked his head slightly. “Sorry, that sounded weird.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not common,” Emma sighed. “I miss Erik. My older brother, Gerhardt, wanted him to join the Templar order, but my brother is a sailor and adventurer, not a fighter.”

Their conversation had been easy the whole trip. He predicted with just the two of them, it would be a mere three day trip there, and three days back. It didn’t seem enough.

The sun was setting on their second day; the horses were tired and Emma was rubbing the small of her back; “Maker, you would think the heat would dissipate when the sun went down. Should we make camp?”

Cullen glanced at his surroundings—they were extremely familiar; “We’re in Honnleath.”

“Are we?” she asked, casting her eyes around like she would see a sign. “I’ve never been here.”

“Come. I know the perfect place to camp. It’s not far, if you don’t mind riding a bit longer.”

“Not at all,” she smiled. “Lead the way, Commander.”

It really wasn’t far, another half hour tops. They rode an easy pace in silence. Cullen could smell the lake before he could see it—it was that familiar. The air was cooler here; slightly damper, but the breeze coming off the water was pleasant.

She sighed as she lowered herself from her saddle;”You were right. Excellent spot.”

He laughed as he dismounted his own steed; “Well, while I prepare this excellent spot for tonight, you can hitch the horses by the water there. They will appreciate it, I’m sure.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, and it took all of his self-control not to descend on her and slide his own tongue along hers. He watched her mouth meaningfully for a full ten seconds before his eyes flickered back up to hers. She’d frozen in his gaze, and only when he turned from her did she scurry off to see to the horses.

He lost himself in the familiar task of preparing their camp. She was speaking softly to the horses while she removed their tack and blankets, rubbing them down with wet hands. He turned to her just as she was petting the nose of his sleek black stallion.

“So,” she began as she made her way over to him. She was rubbing her own neck with a damp hand, darkening her pale green shirt. “What made you want to stop here?”

“I grew up near here,” he replied frankly.

“Really!?” she exclaimed. She sat across from him, leaning towards him intently. “Tell me more!”

He laughed at her enthusiasm; “Well, I grew up on a little farm about a mile from here. It’s long gone by now, and I haven’t seen it since I left for Templar training many years ago. But I used to come to this little lake to get away from my siblings.”

“Aw, you didn’t get along?” she teased.

“No, we got on just fine,” Cullen rolled his eyes and leaned back, letting the breeze cool him (if only a little). “I loved them all, but they were _very_ loud. I came here to get some quiet, but they always found me. I suppose it never occurred to me to find a new hiding spot.”

She chuckled under her breath; “I know the feeling. To me, half the perks of being Inquisitor is getting my own room. So you wanted to take some time off to bring me here?”

“That’s part of it,” he admitted. He gazed at her—she was sucking at her lower lip, her blue eyes intent on his. He licked his own lips. The setting sun burnished her hair gold. “But I also wanted to just…get away with you, if only for a time.”

“I like being here,” she sighed. “With you.”

He smiled, crooking his finger at her. She obediently scooted over to him, but instead of sitting next to him, she braced her hands on either side of his hips. Her chest was pushed right against his, and _Maker_ she was so close. He couldn’t resist—he leaned forward to steal a kiss. He flickered his tongue, and he could taste the salt of her sweat. It was a potent effect.

“Andraste’s sweaty tits, but it’s hot,” she swore.

He snorted under his breath; “Andraste’s what now?”

“I take it that lake is safe?” she was already standing, much to his chagrin. Part of him wanted to press her into the grass and ravish her until she was begging him to continue.

“Yes,” he replied. “Emma, what are you doing?”

“Cooling off,” she said frankly. She turned away from him, pulling the leather tie that kept her ponytail in place. Her hair fell in a golden curtain down her back before she pushed it forward.

He expected her to simply step into the lake, but she reached behind her, tugging at the knot at the base of her neck. With a flick of her wrist, it unraveled, causing the flimsy green material to flutter to the ground around her feet. She cast her eyes over her shoulder, her back completely bare. He could feel his breath accelerate—his fingers itched to touch her.

But it seemed that was part of the game; her gaze darkened as she bent to peel her riding boots and breeches off, leaving her standing before him in her smalls. It occurred to him that he’d never seen her like this before. With a girlish contortion, her smalls joined her clothes. She turned for his inspection.

The effect was likely the most erotic he’d ever seen—her thick hair covered her breasts and tumbled down to her hips. To know she was nude beneath it—that a gust of wind could reveal her completely, but she remained concealed to him—it left her both perversely modest and unbelievably vulnerable at the same time. His breath caught in his throat; his pulse leapt in his chest. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

“Maker, you are so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice dark and deep.

She blushed, averting her eyes with a small grin. She turned, revealing that perfect ass to him—a full, rounded heart-shaped pillow that he wanted his hands all over _right now._

She cast one more look over her shoulder, this one coy and distinctly sexual; “Join me?”

She stepped into the lake slowly and deliberately; the water came to just above her knees before she surface dove. She popped up quickly, smoothing her wet hair from her face. All he could see were her bare shoulders. Her blue eyes were dark.

In a sudden fit of modesty, he turned form her, wrestling his shirt off, tossing them to the side. He followed with his boots and breeches, pausing when he hooked his thumbs into his smalls. He was already _very_ erect, and he didn’t want to pressure her.

_Maker, a beautiful woman is in that lake naked as the day she was born, and she_ wants _you and if you don’t follow her in right now…_

He sighed, removing the scrap of fabric around his hips. He felt… free. Vulnerable, a little terrified, sure, but mostly just free. The breeze played over his bare skin, and he could feel his senses heighten. The soft sound of the water reminded him of the stunning girl waiting for him, and he turned.

Her breath hitched as her eyes raked over his body. She licked her lips and sucked the full bottom lip into her mouth. Cullen had never felt so sexy in his life—like he was something worth aching for. She followed the line of his long scar that stretched from his shoulder to his hips before her gaze settled on his throbbing penis.

He stood frozen before her gaze; she took him in for a while, appraising him. Her eyes flickered up to his, and they were wide with arousal; “Come here.”

He couldn’t help but obey. He slid into the water, coming to join her. He could touch the bottom, but she propped herself on his shoulders. The soft slide of skin, the occasional accidental touch… it was enough to send electric shocks through his whole system. He shot a hand out to grab her around her waist, gliding over the smooth skin that swelled into her full hip. She sighed softly, pushing herself closer.

She kissed him, long and hard, sucking and nibbling his bottom lip, sliding her tongue against his. One hand was still holding her stable against his shoulder; the other was tentatively pressed against his hip.

“May I?” she asked, her voice deep and throaty. It was a complete contrast to her normal voice.

“I couldn’t refuse you if I wanted to,” he groaned. She grinned, ignoring the _awful_ wording he chose to use.

Her soft hand tentatively reached for him, gripping his hard length. He moaned softly under his breath as she brushed her fingertips over him. He wouldn’t get anywhere like that, but he wouldn’t say no to her taking a long, luxurious time on his pleasure.

Emboldened by his moans, she wrapped her fingers around him, pumping hard once. She rolled his foreskin over his tip and retracting it slowly. His breath caught in his chest; he squeezed his eyes shut, rolling his head back. She took the opportunity, and laved her tongue over the elongated line of his throat.

“Did that hurt?” she whispered.

“Maker, no,” Cullen answered, his rough, guttural voice unfamiliar even to him.

“Then I’ll do it again,” she returned, her voice a low threat.

She made the motion again, this time with more purpose. Combined with her warm, soft lips in his pulse point… Maker, he wouldn’t last long. She must have sensed it, for she seemed to slow her assault. She listened and watched, logging his every reaction. She made an appreciative noise when she swiped her thumb over his head and he thrust into her palm. She bit down on his shoulder— _hard—_ when she gave an unforgiving (but _delicious)_ twist as she dragged her hand up. She began pumping harder, her rhythm picking up in speed as she gently tapped her fingertips over the fat vein in the top. His body bowed with the sensation.

“Emma, I can’t…”

“I know,” she replied, her voice dark. She sounded so miserably turned on, and all it did was skyrocket his arousal. “I want you to.”

He moaned, clinging to her shoulders, thrusting into her palm. He looked into her eyes, and there was an impish smirk there. She took a deep breath and plunged underwater, never removing her hand from him. In his pre-orgasm addled mind, he never even considered what she would do next.

When her petal soft lips closed over his head—the warmth of her mouth and the cold of the lake water—he came undone. She was cupping his balls, gently skimming her nails over the swollen sac. He tangled his hand in her hair as her tongue swiped out to skim the underside of his penis. He fairly screamed as he came; she swallowed for a few seconds before she had to come up for air.

She breached the water’s surface gasping, but her expression was deeply satisfied; “That was nice.”

He didn’t disentangle his hands from her hair. Instead, he pulled her head back, forcing her into an exaggerated bow. She moaned—deep and guttural—when he closed his mouth over her nipple. He sucked—arguably too hard—on the pebbled flesh. His other hand wandered to the apex of her thighs, circling a callused finger over her swollen clit.

“Do you want to?” he asked against her throat.

“Please,” she begged, and he growled, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh, sucking hard. He would leave a mark. Every nibble, every suck, every lick, branded his mark into her flesh.

_Mine. Mine._

He was merciless. This was no slow, sweet build to release. He wanted to see her come undone. He wanted her to fall apart in his hands. He continued to lave at her breasts, biting her pert nipples. One hand stayed tangled in her hair, pulling lightly. He tugged again, a possessive gesture; she cried out and thrust her hips at him.

“You like that?” he snarled.

_Maker, I sound like an animal._

“Yes,” she whimpered, her hips moving in helpless little circles against his fingers.

“Good.”

Without much preemptive thought, he slid his hands down, plunging two thick, unforgiving fingers into her. He found that spongy spot at the top, pushing on it hard while his thumb picked up what his fingers had been doing. Her cunt clenched his fingers, her breathing became heavier and faster, her moans were higher pitched.

He felt when she came, a hot gush combined with the perfect vice-like clench; he crushed her lips to his, swallowing her screams. He wanted this. He wanted this every day, in every way possible. He continued pressing possessive, lingering kisses to her lips, her cheeks, her temples, her eye lids, her throat and shoulder…anywhere he could reach.

“Maker, Emma,” he gasped, slowly withdrawing his fingers. He disentangled his hand from her hair, but kept cupping the back of her head. Her eyes were still dark. “I never want to stop touching you.”

“Then don’t,” she sighed, cradling his face in her hands. She pulled him in for another kiss, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her closer. He felt himself get hard again, the harsh jut of his penis digging into her soft hip.

_Maker, I’m in trouble._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm. I had fun with this one. Go figure. It's a little longer than my normal entries, I think. 
> 
> Tell me what you think! I'm loving everyone's feedback! I literally couldn't stop squealing when I read some of the comments from the previous chapters. 
> 
> As always, thanks to everyone for reading this. You continue to make my day, and you make me WANT to update this so badly!!! I can't thank everyone enough!


	10. When He Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen questions a decision he made when he joined the Inquisition. Needless to say, Emma is not happy about it.

Emma pressed her back against his. He could feel the cold radiating off of her hands and the gentle but insistent pressure of her stance. He heard the slight energy ripple from her spectral sword lashing out. They were surrounded on all sides by demons, but for once, he didn’t seem to mind.

“Cullen, look out!”

She stepped in front of him, sending out a spiky wall of ice crystals. The demons approaching him disintegrated in front of his eyes. His own sword flickered out, slashing at the chest of one of the horrors. They fought in near perfect tandem; he shot a crooked grin at her. She shot back her pretty smile and went back to work.

“Get down!” she cried, throwing her glowing hand into the air. With a wiggle of her fingers, a fine green shaft of light connected her and the rift. That distant-thunder sound split through the air and it was over. The rift was closed, and they were surrounded by innocuous piles of ash. A soft wind carried them away like they were nothing more than neglected campfires.

“Are you hurt, angel?” he asked, inspecting her snow-white armor for blood.

“I’m fine, Cullen,” she laughed. “You really do worry too much.”

“You’ll forgive me for worrying a little,” he shot back, enveloping her in his arms. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, reveling in the smell of her hair. _Honeysuckle._ “You mean so much to me, after all.”

“We really are terrible at this whole ‘romantic banter’ thing, aren’t we?” she teased, running her fingers down his chest.

“Maybe we should stop with the banter and just cut to the chase,” he replied darkly, pushing her hair away from her face.

“I like the sound of that,” she purred.

She pushed her hands around the back of his neck, burying her fingers in his hair.  He affectionately squeezed her shoulder, pulling her in for a kiss. It was a deep, lingering press of lips; he flicked his tongue out to meet hers, while she moved a hand down his chest to settle at his chest, just over his left side.

A sharp pain ran up from where her hands met his skin; where had his armor gone? A dagger was stuck between his ribs. He couldn’t breathe. Dark blood pooled around her fingers. He looked into Emma’s eyes, and her pretty face was twisted into something dark and evil.

“Why?” he gasped, desperately clinging to her.

“Oh, angel,” she put a cruel twist on his affectionate pet name for her. “You do let your guard down so easily.”

She twisted the knife, pressed her lips against his, and tugged— _hard._

Cullen awoke, drenched in cold sweat. He pressed his hands against his ribs and, of course, there was nothing there. Even the pain seemed to be fading. However, the pain in his head was very real.

He groaned while this horrific migraine tore through his head. His vision darkened on the edges and his pulse sped in his chest. His cold sweat had nothing to with his nightmare.

“Another one,” he sighed to himself. This was getting ridiculous. Since his return to Skyhold from Ferelden, the nightmares had come ceaselessly, night after night. Sleep was hard enough these days; he didn’t need his own mind rebelling against him.

Regardless, he wasn’t getting back to sleep this night. He didn’t like the image of a blood-mage Emma turning on him. The fact that his subconscious even _thought_ it would happen spoke miles about how much he trusted her. Which was awful, because he _did_ trust her. He would put his life in her hands over and over. She’d been so supportive in his decision not to take lyrium. He told her things he hadn’t told anyone.

He hadn’t told her about the Fereldan Circle, though. He’d made oblique references to it, and she hadn’t pressed (for which he was eternally grateful) but he’d never had that conversation. He’d told her his feelings on mages, and how they changed from those dark days. That was it. The seeds remained a mystery to her. But again, she never pressed. She’d let him reveal his past to her at his own pace, giving exactly what he needed.

He sighed and picked his way down his ladder, figuring at least he was up; he should get some paperwork done. His office was illuminated through the full moon, shining at full force through the window. Even so, he lit one of his lanterns, turning the flame down low—his headache couldn’t handle much more than that.

It didn’t take long for the writing on the page to start to blur. The edges of his vision went dark momentarily, and the headache went from a dull ache to a sharp, stabbing pain above his left eye. He rubbed at it miserably, but there wasn’t much he could do…

In a moment of panic, when he realized he had been staring at the parchment for about 20 minutes and hadn’t retained _any_ of it, he came to a horrible conclusion. If he continued on this path, if he continued to selfishly deny his body what it had become accustomed to, he may no longer be qualified to lead the Inquisition.

~~~

Figuring the morning would bring clarity, Cullen tried to go back to bed. But all the morning brought seemed to be misery and a dull ache in his muscles that had never been there before. He dragged himself into his clothing, giving his breastplate a dirty look, before forgoing it to meet his morning messenger.

The older woman was patiently waiting by his desk with a pile of reports for his approval. He _really_ couldn’t handle it today, as his migraine intensified at the mere thought.

“Commander,” she greeted him as he trudged to his desk. She seemed surprised, and he didn’t blame her—he was never late for their meeting.

Glancing out his window, he saw Cassandra moving through her morning routine. He turned to his soldier; “I need to speak with Seeker Pentaghast this morning. If anyone comes looking for me, let them know.”

“Of course, Commander,” she saluted smartly.

He made his way across the battlements… this would not be an easy conversation.

~~~

“No.”

“Cassandra,” Cullen chided, trying not to sound as frustrated as he was.

“No,” the Seeker repeated. “Out of the question.”

“It’s getting worse,” he pleaded. “If I can’t control it…”

“No.”

“Well now you’re just sounding like a child,” Cullen retorted. The flash of pain behind his eye burned a little brighter.

“Cullen,” she continued, her voice hard. “You have done well so far. Since Emma joined us, it has gotten even better. I believe you can pull through—why don’t you?”

“Because I refuse to give less to the Inquisition than I gave the Chantry,” he snapped. He pressed his fingers to his temples, massaging in slow circles.

“Is it that bad?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, shocked at how honest his answer was. “If I can’t uphold the vows I kept…”

“Cullen?” a soft, achingly familiar voice called from the door.

He whirled on Emma, on the Inquisitor. Her face was crumpled in concern. She heard him, and she looked so _hurt._ He suddenly felt so guilty—guilty for everything he hid from her. He reexamined his nightmare, and suddenly couldn’t even bear to look her in the eyes.

His shoulders slumped under the weight of his _failures—_ as a man, as a Templar, and even as a lover. He walked away from her, face burning in shame; “Forgive me.”

~~~

He glared at the lyrium kit. The wood had gone soft from decades of handling; the tools were ragged from years of use. He kept it, despite his distaste for it.

_It means I’m weak._

He remembered Emma’s hurt and betrayed look… he remembered the splitting pain in the middle of the night. Where once he had conviction, now he wasn’t sure. Should he continue on this path, at least until their fight was over? The headache stabbed in pain once more, and he thought…what if he needed to have anyone’s back? What if _Emma_ needed him in a fight? Could he push past it and do what needed to be done. Could he protect her? The uncertainty…it was worse than anything else. In a fit of childish rage, and an animal scream, he grabbed the innocuous little box in his hand and hurled it at the wall.

Of course, Emma chose that exact moment to come into his office. He thanked the Maker her reflexes were excellent, as she narrowly avoided the box hitting her in the face.

“Maker’s breath!” he exclaimed. “Emma, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

His vision blurred once more; a wave of nausea hit him like a ton of bricks, and he had to grab his desk to avoid falling over.

_Maker how embarrassing would_ that _be?_

Emma rushed to his side. He tried to fend her off, but he lost all conviction when her arms closed around his chest. He leaned into her touch; her expression was softer, but still mad.

“Why, Cullen?” she demanded. There were tears in her voice, and another stab of guilt ran through his heart.

“I never meant for it to get this bad,” he admitted. Her fingers dug sharply into his chest, but she didn’t remove them.

“Well, it did get this bad,” she growled.

_Oh, she’s mad._

“I’m sorry,” he groaned.

“Are you going to be all right?” she asked.

He stood under his own power, regretting the loss of her hands, but she was clearly concerned; “Yes… I don’t know.”

“OK, then,” her hand flicked out and slapped him across the face.

He froze. Emma never lashed out. She felt her emotions deeply, but she’d never laid a hand on him (or anyone who didn’t deserve it). She was fairly quivering with rage.

“What in Andraste’s name is _wrong_ with you?” she hissed.

“What?” He felt his own anger start to simmer.

“I thought you trusted me,” her eyes were hard, but tears ran down her cheeks. “I thought you _cared._ I thought you wanted this to work, but you go to Cassandra _behind my back_ about this? Beyond just the _woman you are with_ I am also the Inquisitor, and I _deserve_ to know at least the bare minimum of what’s going on with you!”

“Emma!” he was taken aback by her words.

“Apparently, I don’t mean as much to you as you mean to me,” she growled. “You’ve never told me _anything._ You wait until it’s too late, until I’ve cornered you, and you give me the slimmest details. _You don’t trust me._ And if we can’t get past this, you obviously never will… and then I can’t trust you.”

His brows drew down and he gritted his back teeth. She was intentionally trying to hurt him, and the logical part of him knew she was just angry and hurt and upset. Unfortunately, that part was quiet, masked by pain and hurt and that headache that _still wouldn’t go away._

He picked up his goblet and hurled it at the wall, watching it miss her head by about six inches and shatter on the back wall, joining the broken pieces of the lyrium kit.

“Maybe I didn’t tell you because I want that part of my life separate from you!” he yelled. “Maybe I just wanted to _start over,_ but I guess I don’t get that luxury. Every time I turn around, everyone’s asking me to relive the horrors of my youth, and it won’t stop. Maybe I should be taking lyrium—clearly you would prefer me an addict.”

“Cullen,” her voice was soft—her anger had dissipated, but her eyes were wide with fear. Her hands were prone in front of her.

He didn’t register; “You want to know what happened? I was tortured. _For days._ By blood mages and abominations—my friends were slaughtered. I can still _hear their screams._ They used every image possible to get me to break, and when I didn’t they simply denied me food and water. I never slept. The pain was too much. Less than a decade later, I was _surrounded_ by blood mages all the time. And when the Circle fell, innocents died in the streets. I saw my Knight Commander turn to crystal and then dust. I saw horrors you can _only imagine_.”

“Cullen, please…”

“I made a vow,” he roared. “I would never go back. I never want _anything_ to do with that life, and yet… I’m giving less. I should be… I won’t give less. I should be at my best! I should be…”

Unable to finish the sentence, he impotently punched the wall. A shard of pain ran up his arm—he’d cracked his knuckle.

_I should be taking it._

Emma had backed away from him. Her eyes were so wide, and her hands were in front of her in a nonthreatening gesture. She was approaching him like one would approach a cornered animal, and his anger dispersed almost immediately.

“Maker’s breath, I’m sorry, angel,” he whimpered. He reached for her, and felt a new stab of guilt when she flinched.

“I understand, Cullen,” she murmured. She resisted when he tried to pull her to him. “But… we can’t do this. We can’t hide from each other… and we can’t blow up at each other when it all becomes too much. We have to… we have to talk to each other.”

Cullen sighed; “I’ve never told anyone what happened to me at Ferelden’s circle. The man I was after… I’m afraid you wouldn’t like him very much. I’m afraid he wouldn’t like you very much. And the thought of that… the thought of never even seeing you. It sickens me. It aches to my core that my beautiful, radiant girl would ever just be another mage to me.”

He turned to her, and she was blushing, which made him feel a little better. She pushed herself up to sit on his desk and she pulled him to her, encasing him in her arms. For once, he just let himself be held. He melted into her arms, listening to the soothing sounds of her heartbeat, feeling the steady rise-and-fall of her breath… it soothed all the aches and pains away.

“Is it always this bad?” she asked, stroking his hair, trailing her fingers down his neck.

“The pain comes and goes,” he admitted. He held her tighter; his hands were visibly shaking, but she didn’t acknowledge it or press.

“I just hope…” she sighed. “I just want you to be all right.”

“I am,” he gave a sad sigh of a laugh. He turned his face and nuzzled the sensitive skin behind her ear.

“I’m going to admit something you won’t approve of,” she growled. There was an intensity in her voice, a protective tone that made him ache in another way—a way that made him feel loved, and cherished. “I hate them for what they did to you. I hate those mages, and I hate the Chantry and the templars who are making it so much worse.”

He pulled back slightly, grasping her face. He pressed his forehead against hers, drawing strength from her presence.

“I mean,” her voice shook when she drew in a ragged breath. “I need my Commander at my side so I can face the world’s greatest evils.”

He drew back suddenly, and for the first time he saw the weight of the world on her. He saw the abject terror in her eyes, the horrible memories of what she’d lived through, what she’d seen, and the knowledge of the inevitable path she must walk. And he never considered it. Her future was bathed in blood… and it terrified her.

“Oh, Emma,” he sighed, drawing her close. “I will always be here for you, angel.”

“You better,” there was a broken quality to her voice as she buried her face in his shoulder. “As your Inquisitor, I demand that you make it through the end of this war with me. I _demand_ to have even an option of a future with you.”

He chuckled softly, despite the tears that escaped down his cheeks; “As my Lady commands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find the short quest line involving Cullen's decision whether to take lyrium or not is important for his character as well as the relationship with him. I sort of mashed the two quests together. 
> 
> I also thought... the Inquisitor has been there for him, trusted him, and let him in, despite the world on her shoulders. They've saved each other, learned of each other's families, and he went to Cassandra without even telling her? How upset would she be, how hurt would she be that he didn't trust her enough to even let her in on this little secret? That's the dynamic I wanted to explore. 
> 
> This chapter was hard :


	11. When it Rains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rain at Skyhold drives the Commander inside, much to his chagrin. Emma has plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly NSFW

Cullen pouted, and he normally detested pouting. But he figured in this case, he had cause to pout, considering for the foreseeable future, at least, he would be homeless.

Autumn was in full swing around Skyhold, and on top of the lovely foliage and freezing nights, rain pummeled the castle. It came down in sheets so furious, all the outdoor operations (and he meant _all)_ had to be moved indoors; the horses were living in relative comfort in the basement, most training had to take place in the main hall—everything.

Including Cullen. At the behest of…well, just about everyone, he had moved his operation out of his tower—his little corner of solitude—and into the castle proper like everyone else. Most of the staff were working on weatherproofing the place, and his tower would not be left untouched.   He should have been grateful, but the thought of sleeping in the barracks dampened his enthusiasm.

One particularly dreary evening, Cullen was wandering the great hall. Most of the staff (along with Emma’s companions, for that matter) were sluggish and lethargic. He was no exception. Thunder rumbled somewhere up the mountain mere moments after lightning lit up the hall.

“Lovely evening.”

Cullen grinned and turned away from the stained glass windows; Emma was leaning against her throne, her full lips drawn up in a casual smirk.

“It just got a bit lovelier,” he quipped.

“Sweet talker,” she purred, moving close. She moved a hand up his arm with deliberate pressure.

He made an appreciative sound in the back of his throat before pressing a quick kiss to her lips. He then turned to the windows once more, watching the water drop down the colored glass.

“What’re you thinking about?” she asked casually, leaning against him.

“A lot of things, actually,” he answered seriously.

“Well, I have a bottle of Nevarran liquor in my quarters and _no one_ to share it with. Care to join me?”

Cullen felt the air go out of the room. Talk about your non sequiturs…

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to seduce me,” he jibed. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to be led to the oak door leading to the Inquisitor’s tower.

“What, little old me?” she shot back. “Perish the thought.”

As she led him up the stairs, it occurred to him he’d never been in Emma’s room before. She seemed to have much of a wing to herself, but it was mostly private hallways and stairs. Her actual room was cozy. The large Orlesian doors leading to her balcony were shut tight, with gossamer fabric serving as simple curtains. Her four-poster bed, with its opulent velvet drapes, dark bedding, and mountains of fluffy pillows, looked so inviting. There was a fire going in the huge fireplace, throw pillows and a fluffy blanket were mounded on the sofa. A book lay open on the floor next to said sofa (Cullen couldn’t see the title) and there were even more books and papers stacked messily on the little writing desk. Candles littered just about every surface, and she lit them with a small wave of her hand, casting the room in a soft, golden glow.

“Sorry about the mess,” she said softly, pulling off her outer coat. “Make yourself comfortable, wherever.”

_The bed. Always choose the bed._

Ignoring his thoughts, he settled into the sofa, pushing the blankets out of the way. Feeling nosy, he craned his neck slightly to peer at the book Emma had been reading while she fished in her desk for the bottle she promised.

_‘The handsome templar lashed at Irina’s wetness with his tongue; she thrashed beneath his hands, feeling her desire build with every swipe. His talented hands pressed between her folds, and she arched into his touch—‘_

Cullen flushed, surreptitiously pushing the blanket to cover the book. He had _no idea_ Emma was into that sort of thing, but now he couldn’t unsee it—snuggled into this very sofa, hugging her piles of pillows, reading her erotic novel. He imagined her biting her lip, rubbing her thighs together…

_Maker, maybe the bed_ would _have been safer._

Emma finally came over to him, carrying a tall clear bottle filled with what looked like water. She had two small glasses in her hand, barely enough for two or three fingers worth.

“Found it,” she declared with triumph. She settled onto the sofa next to him, pressing her thigh against his. She pulled her long hair over her shoulder; exposing the bare line of her neck and Maker she was doing that on purpose. She filled each of the little glasses and handed him one. “Some Nevarran dignitary gave this to me on his last visit. Expensive as shit, apparently, but don’t let it touch your tongue. It has a bit of a kick.”

She tossed the glass back; he saw her throat work briefly as she swallowed before she shuddered pleasantly. He felt heat creep into his face, and he hadn’t even had a drink yet. He still thought the stuff looked like water; he shot his own drink. It burned down his throat and hit his stomach like a ton of bricks.

_Oh Maker, that’s not water._

The affect was instantaneous and _extremely_ pleasant. The burning turned to a warmth that spread to his extremities. A delightful bliss started to cloud his head.

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“Told you,” Emma said with a giggle. She refilled their glasses, clinked hers against his, and tossed it back. He watched the blush on her cheeks deepen a little. “Shouldn’t have too much, though.”

He took his shot and agreed—if one had made him relaxed, two was bringing him to slightly tipsy. That surprised him. He hadn’t felt this relaxed and unguarded in a while.

“So,” she began, setting the bottle aside. “What were you thinking about? Downstairs, I mean.”

He was in the mood to be honest; “I find myself thinking about what will happen after.”

“After?”

“After all this,” he clarified, swinging his hand around to indicate…what he wasn’t sure. “The Inquisition. It’s not going to go on forever, is it?”

“I hope not,” Emma muttered. “I couldn’t handle it.”

He turned towards her, keeping their legs pressed together. He opened his posture, laying his arm across the back of the sofa; “Why do you say that?”

“Because I’m Inquisitor, Cullen,” she sighed. “I’m this… unobtainable thing. Andraste’s chosen. A hero. That’s fine; it’s good during a war. But after all this is over, I want to move on. I never wanted this, but I took it up. Because it was _my_ responsibility.”

His heart seized. She wanted to move on? From what? From _him?_ She leaned back with a heavy sigh, and he took the opportunity to affectionately run his fingers across her scalp. She leaned into the touch with an approving purr.

“What will you do after?” His voice had a strangled quality to it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer…

She gave a humorless laugh; “If Cassandra lets me out of her sight long enough to have a future, I don’t know. Go back to the Circle, maybe? Help rebuild. Or maybe I would go back to my family; become the noble daughter my family always wanted me to be.”

She paused, twirling her empty glass in her hands. Emma never fidgeted unless there was something serious on her mind. He ran his knuckles up and down her cheeks; his stomach flipped when she nuzzled his hand back, letting her eyes slide closed with bliss.

“I don’t want to move on,” he said bluntly. “When this is over, I want…”

What did he want? She was gazing at him expectantly, that little pout of a mouth parted. He was overwhelmed with everything in this room—the lighting, the sound of rain, and the scent of the honeysuckle she perfumed her hair with were just too much. Her eyes were darkened and her cheeks were attractively flushed, though if it was from the lighting and alcohol or actual desire, he wasn’t sure.

“What do you want, Cullen?” she whispered darkly.

“I want a future,” he blurted. “With you.”

The silence in the room was oppressive. She immediately sobered, sitting ramrod straight, and narrowing her eyes at him. He fumbled, raking his hands through his hair. He had to fix this! He had to clarify.

“I mean,” he stuttered. “I mean of course that is if you want to, I—.”

_Words! They always fail me!_

He stopped dead with a groan, burying his face in his hands; “That all sounded so much better in my head.”

And she _laughed._ It was a soft, affectionate laugh, but a laugh none the less. She put her hand on his back, tugging on his arm. He faced her, and her expression was so soft—so genuine—he felt a tug in his chest. His heart hammered in his chest; a radiant smile lit up her face. She swooped in to kiss him. It was frenzied, and yet it was so tender. She grasped his collar in her fists, pulling him closer.

He opened his lips, letting her in, and her movements intensified. She swung a leg over his hip, pressing her center right against his steadily growing erection. Her breath sped up, becoming more frantic. He grinned under her kiss; she responded by nibbling his lower lip. She raked her nails across his shoulders through his shirt. It was a deliberate display of want, and it caused all the blood in his head to pool in his groin.

She purred when she felt him press against her. She whipped her hips in a slow back-and-forth—he had to still her, or he would come in his pants like a randy youth. He put insistent hands on her thighs, holding her tightly. She halted her motions instantly with a guttural moan; her panting became higher pitched as one of his hands skated up her thigh. It was a slow, teasing slide, but she responded by grasping his shoulders, leaning into his neck. He could feel her breath on his neck, and he grinned when he felt hit hitch. He pressed two fingers against where he _knew_ her clit was…

_Maker, I can feel it through her breeches._

“Cullen,” she moaned, grinding unsubtly against his hand. He felt a shudder rush through him—he loved the way she said his name. He used his other hand to grip her ass in bruising hands, pulling her closer. She gasped, letting out a keening moan that made him feel about 15 feet tall. She was literally shaking, and her eyes were completely black with desire.

“I want it to be tonight, Cullen,” she whimpered.

“What?” he replied stupidly. He pulled her forward to press biting little kisses along her collar bone and pulse point.

“I want you,” she repeated, her voice breathy and low. He stilled instantly. “Tonight.”

He pulled her back, his hands resting against her waist. He was shuddering with need and he was painfully hard; the tent in his breeches could attest to that. But he made a promise—a vow.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I… I need you, Cullen.”

And that did it. With a swift motion, she was on her back, pressed into the soft pillows and comforter that lay crumpled on the floor. He cushioned her fall with his arms; she let out a soft ‘oof’ but he muffled it, crushing her lips to his. He rutted against her, thinking how _easy_ it would be to simply tear her breeches off and be in her with two quick movements.

_No. Gentle. Be gentle. She deserves more._

“Is this…?” he began, easing his assault.

“My first time?” she answered, her voice trembling with nerves and longing. “Yes… and I want it to be with you.”

He grinned against her throat, pressing a long lingering kiss over her pulse point; “As my lady commands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm evil. Please don't hit me. 
> 
> Sorry it's a little shorter. I wanted to devote the WHOLE chapter to the next scene. This was a difficult one for me, I don't know why. 
> 
> Personally, as much as I love the in-game scene, I wanted to make some changes. 
> 
> Again, thank you to EVERYONE who reads this!!!


	12. When it Pours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen finally lets himself go when he is given something he never knew he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Immediate continuation of the previous chapter. Very NSFW smut chapter. Like, that's all it is. 
> 
> You're welcome.

Despite her inexperience, Emma’s kisses were driving him through the roof. He didn’t know if it was technique or if it was just _her._ But either way, he didn’t want to stop.

She seized his face in her hands; despite being under him, she controlled the kiss. He pressed a leg between her thighs, and he could almost feel the heat radiating from her center. She pried his mouth open with her tongue, licking in long, languid strokes that sent shots of lightning straight to his core. She curled her tongue up, running the tip along the roof of his mouth.

He fairly panted into her mouth; her hands were everywhere, while his were unnervingly still on her hips. He flexed his fingers over and over, feeling the soft give of skin under her soft, silken breeches. She pulled his shirt from his belt, skating her fingers over his chest. Her hands slid over his nipples and he drew in a sharp breath. She broke their kiss, pressing into the blankets below. He grinned wickedly as his hands flickered to hers, pressing them to either side of her head. She gasped sharply, arching her hips into his.

“Before this night is over,” he growled, nuzzling the hollow of her throat with his nose. “I will make you beg.”

“I fear that won’t take much,” she whispered.

He gave a short laugh before moving his kisses, migrating down her body. He pressed his lips at the soft hollow between her full breasts. He felt a tug in his groin at her soft sigh. He palmed one full, rounded mound. It just overfilled his large hand, and he groaned as he felt her nipple harden through the flimsy material of her shirt.

His other hand braced himself above her as he laved over the sensitive area just at the swell of her breast. She was moaned a high pitched keen of a sound that intensified the tightness in his pants. His fingers had to abandon what they were doing when he started to work the ribbons holding her shirt closed. She was panting, and her lips were swollen and red. Her hair was a messy tangle spread out around her. His hands stilled; he drove one into the hair behind her head and tugged, drawing her head back, exposing the long line of her throat. She groaned when he latched onto the sensitive area and sucked, grazing his teeth along the smooth skin. He growled possessively in the back of his throat when he saw the dark purple mark where his lips just left.

She was shaking with need; he pulled her into a sitting position, never once giving up his grip on her hair. With a sharp tug, the ribbon on her shirt came loose, and the exaggerated collar slipped around her shoulders. The fabric pooled easily around her ribs, exposing her breasts. Her nipples were hard, unforgiving, pink points that he immediately sucked into his mouth. She arched, her body bending into a sinuous, graceful bow.

He laved over the pebbled flesh, listening to her near-silent moans, he felt his control twist away from his grasp. Damn him to the Void, but he was so hungry for her. Every minute of just _touching_ her, kissing her, made him achingly hard. His whole body was tense, ready to pounce. Her every breath swelled her breasts, pushing them harder into his mouth. The sounds coming from him were downright feral.

And he didn’t care.

“Emma,” he sighed against her nipple, giving it a sharp bite. She yelped, but her thighs spread a little bit further. She was straddling one of his thighs, rubbing her clothed slit over it, desperate for friction that was impossible to get. “What do you need?”

“I don’t…” she paused. Her expression was dazed. “I want… I need _you_.”

“And you have me,” he answered. “But not here.”

Wresting control away from his libido, he yanked his hands away from her. His fingers twitched with _need_ when he lost contact with her skin, her hair… He pulled her to her feet and hooked his thumbs into her breeches.

“Off,” he demanded, his voice low and dark. She shuddered, stabilizing herself on his shoulder before toeing off her boots. She stopped short of removing her breeches, though, and pressed her bare chest into his. The silky material of her shirt pooling around her waist, with her breasts exposed—it was almost too much.

“Bed?” she gasped, wrapping her arms around his waist, tugging at his shirt once more.

She didn’t wait for his answer, simply tugging him backwards toward the massive four-poster. He allowed himself to be led; his lips quirked in a satisfied smirk when he noticed her gait was about as even as a newborn foal. _He_ was affecting her so. _He_ was causing those powerful reactions. _He_ was responsible for her current state of miserable arousal.

He had never felt so powerful.

And yet, when she pushed gently on his shoulder, pressing him into a sitting position at the edge of the mattress, he felt powerless. Supplicant. She cupped his jaw in her hands and bent to kiss him, and he was practically reverent. Her unsteady fingers plucked at his shirt, finally finding the little tie that kept the whole thing together. With an easy motion, she whisked it over his head; the surprisingly cool air of the bedroom hit his bare skin and he felt his pulse leap.

She drew in a sharp breath before making an appreciative sound in the back of her throat. It was her turn to press biting kisses into his neck and shoulder. He arched under her touch, his desire rekindled immediately.

Once again, her hands were all over him. She climbed into his lap, and as badly as he wanted to hold her, he had to brace himself as she pressed into him. He could feel her wet heat against his throbbing cock, even through several layers of fabric.

“You want these off?” she purred against his throat. She jumped when he cupped her ass with his big hand, hooking a thumb into her waistband.

“More than anything,” he growled.

She pressed one more lingering kiss to his lips before stepping away. She allowed his hand to linger, standing only just far enough away so his hand could rest on her hip. She pushed her hands into her breeches and peeled them off, revealing her long, creamy legs. Her smalls were slung low on her hip, and he wanted nothing more than to see her.

“These too,” he said, running his hand over the silky material.

“So impatient,” she quipped, though the heat in her voice removed a lot of the sting.

“Please, Emma” he moaned, pressing his fingers into her hips, her bottom, her thighs…

“Why?” she asked, though it was more of a taunt than an actual question.

He pulled her closer, running a hand over the curve of her waist. He pushed the fabric of her shirt up, running his tongue over her tummy. He smiled when the muscles gave little ticklish twitches. With a smooth motion, he pulled the shirt over her head, leaving her bare before him in nothing but her smalls. He returned to the worship of her breasts, and he allowed his hands to wander.

Her skin was so soft; his hands trembled as he moved his fingers to the apex of her thighs.

“I want to taste you,” he growled.

Her breath hitched, and her legs went weak. He cradled her, guiding her to his lap. With a smooth, easy motion, he laid her prone on the bed, him levered over her. She was fairly panting by now as he grasped the satiny material of her smalls and yanked them off. He tossed them onto the general pile of linens on the other side of the room, and, for the first time, saw her in her entirety.

“Maker,” he gasped, and that was all he could say. Emma was _always_ beautiful, but laid beneath him fully nude and desiring him… she was breathtaking.

She held her breath as he bent to kiss her again. It was not a slow, languid press of lips. It was full of raw, hungry need. He needed to touch her. He pressed his fingers against the downy curls, a slightly darker blonde than the hair on her head. He slipped past her folds, and she was so slick. It was going to take all his self control to not just plunge into her, his cock sheathed by her wet heat, her cunt pulsing in time to his thrusts...

_Control yourself._

He broke their kiss. Moving deliberately, so she could stop him, he bent lower, pulling her thighs over his bare shoulders. He turned his face to plant a kiss on that soft skin, and she gasped. She was having trouble controlling her noises, and he loved it. She was coming apart beneath him, and it was what he needed.

Never breaking eye contact, he pressed his hands against her inner thighs, pushing them apart, exposing her slit. She tossed her head back onto the pillows, gasping unevenly.

“Please,” she begged. She moved her hips in helpless little circles. The scent of her was powerful and heady.

“So impatient,” he mocked her earlier statement.

He slicked his sword-rough thumbs across the soft lips, pressing her apart. Her clit had swollen out of its hood, and it was hard and red, fairly pulsing with desire. She was so miserably turned on; she waited for his next move with bated breath.

He couldn’t wait any longer; he ran his tongue up her folds in a long, languid lick. She was sweaty and salty and sweet and it was such a potent combination he felt drunk from it. She wailed and bucked her hips with his movements. He pressed a hand just below her belly button, effectively stilling her.

“Relax, angel,” he murmured, taking care his breath brushed over her clit. She gasped, and he could visibly see her opening clench.

He growled possessively as he pressed his tongue to her once more. He had sword-edge focus on her reactions. Her breathing sped up when he made rapid little swipes side to side. Tight little circles made her hips circle in time with his tongue. When he closed his lips and sucked her between his teeth, she grabbed a fistful of his curls.

He spread her wider and dragged his tongue along the swollen little knot. His hunger was overtaking his concentration. He sucked her, pushed her out, sucked her in again. He felt her wetness coat his chin and he didn’t _care._ He made his tongue into a hard point, tapping it rapidly against her clit.

He practically purred with delight when her gasps became more rapid. The hand in his hair twitched uncontrollably. He dared a peek, and Maker he almost came undone. Her breasts were heaving, her eyes were wide, and she was arched in a sinuous bow.

_I need to feel her come._

He pushed one thick, rough finger into her, curling upwards, dragging over that soft spongy spot.

“Oh, Maker, _Cullen,”_ she cried. She whipped her head to the side and bit into one of her pillows. He increased his speed and pressure, and he felt her clench _so tight_ around him, her cunt gushing in the aftermath of her orgasm.

“That was gorgeous,” he murmured, slowly removing his finger.

He moved up her body in slow, languid kisses, reveling in the way her over-sensitized body twitched beneath his stubble. He pressed his hand against her cheek, and she turned to kiss his palm.

“Are you ready?” he asked. He shifted to toe off one boot, then the other, never looking away from her eyes.

“Do you want me to…?” she asked, sucking one of his fingers into her mouth to demonstrate.

He drew in a ragged breath; with her eyes wide and dark, her lips closed in a perfect little ‘o’, her tongue swirling around his fingertip…

_Andraste preserve me, I’m not going to make it._

“I would love it, Emma,” he answered, pressing his breeches down his legs, adjusting so he could kick them off. “But I want to make love to you, and just the thought of you doing that makes me want to come apart.”

She quirked a brow, reaching to take his long cock into her hand. She pumped it experimentally a few times before settling back into the pillows, reveling in his whimper of frustration; “Next time, then.”

_Next time._

He pulled her to him, lining her hips up with his. _Next time. There’s going to be a next time._ He lined himself up with her opening, groaning a deep, animal growl when the head slipped past that first tight ring of muscle.

With a slow, easy push, he sank into her. Her cunt was _soaked,_ and her muscles rippled around him, pulling him deeper. He hit a barrier inside and stopped, slowly counting to ten. She grabbed onto the back of his neck, hooked her legs around his hips and pulled him the rest of the way in. He was hilted inside of her, and she was moving in tiny, frantic, wanton circles against him.

He was dying. There was no other explanation. His world had narrowed to a tiny pinprick, and at the center was _her._ He gave a few thrusts, angling upward to try and find that spot again. She moaned deeply, clutching his shoulders like he was keeping her head above water.

“Cullen,” she moaned. She slid her hand down her body, over the slope of her abdomen, before coming to rest at the top of her sex. She swirled her fingertips over her clit languidly. He could feel her fingers circle around the base of his cock once or twice and he almost exploded right there.

He thrust _hard_ against her, reveling in the wet sucking sounds her cunt made. He rutted into her in short, irregular jabs. He pressed his callused fingers to her clit, circling the little place where they joined. He pulled himself level with her, pressing one last, lingering kiss to her lips.

Maker, it had been so _long_. His control was once again wrested from his grasp as he moved against her. He was in so deep, and she moved against him, and he wouldn’t last much longer. He _needed_ to come in her; he needed to see her come again. His fingers became more frantic, his thrusts more irregular.

“Oh Cullen, I’m going to…” she gasped, arching against his touch.

“Yes, come for me, angel,” he moaned. He _needed_ to feel that cunt ripple around his cock, like he’d felt it around his fingers.

He could see it, and feel it, when she shattered in his arms. She clung to him, desperate to hold on while his hips snapped against hers. He could feel the tightness winding deep inside, the familiar tingling… He actually saw stars for a minute as he emptied into her. He moaned a high-pitched keen that sounded remarkably like ‘Emma’.

He thrust once more. Then twice. Then completely spent, he collapsed against her, panting. She was holding him, running affectionate hands over his back. He looped his arms around her waist, burying his face into the crook of her neck.

“That was perfect,” she sighed, kissing his temple tenderly.

“Oh, angel, you have no idea,” he moaned. He gasped when he pulled out of her, the familiar pins and needles running through his whole groin.

She turned to him; they were facing each other, a tangle of sweaty limbs. She ran her hands through his hair, smiling shyly. She pressed a kiss to each of his eye lids and pulled him to her chest. Allowing himself a moment, he snuggled against her, listening to her slowing heartbeat. They wouldn’t be moving for a while, that he knew.

As he drifted, he’d never felt so safe. So loved. So unbearably _precious._ He wanted this forever. That much he knew.

He was in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know everyone's been waiting for this chapter with baited breath. I had too much fun writing this. 
> 
> This replaces the scene in Cullen's office (as fun as that scene was, in theory) I don't know... I didn't want to write that scene in detail. Its been done... a lot. I wanted to do something different.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to my lovely readers!! If you liked this, I will DEFINITELY do more.


	13. When He Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the immediate aftermath of their passionate night together, Emma wants to bask with her new lover. Cullen is terrified when he finds that's not an option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Immediately follows "When It Pours"

Cullen woke gently from a mercifully dreamless sleep. The room was briefly unfamiliar, and his extremities were cold. The bed was too soft. He snapped awake, but calmed quickly.

Emma slept next to him, her face shoved into her mountain of pillows, the blankets pulled up to her chin. Cullen now knew why he was cold—the woman was hogging all the covers.

“Typical,” he murmured with a smile. The light coming in her windows was pale blue-gray. It would likely be overcast again, but it seemed the rain had stopped at last.

After adjusting the blankets so he was at least covered, he cast an arm around her shoulders, pressing soft kisses to her temple. Even after a full night’s sleep, he was unbelievably euphoric. He rested his chin on her head, content to lie in bed with her all day. He gave a tiny thrill when he ran his fingertips across the bare skin of her back. She growled softly in her sleep.

He had to smile—his Emma came awake with such difficulty. She shifted on her pillows for a moment before peeling her bleary eyes open. He caught her eye and smirked; she grinned at him.

“Good morning, handsome,” she sighed. “Good dreams?”

“For once, yes,” he replied, pushing her tangled hair back from her face. “You?”

She shrugged and stretched, yawning widely; “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not much of a morning person.”

“Really?” he quipped, skimming his knuckles over her arm. He didn’t want to stop touching her. As a matter of fact, the chaste press of their hips and soft touches on what he could reach were nowhere near enough. He pressed a firm kiss to her lips and she responded sluggishly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

With a smooth motion, he was on top of her again. With a gasp, she automatically opened her legs for him, pressing her heels into the backs of his thighs. He growled contentedly, before swooping in for a heated kiss.

“Wait,” she gasped when she could come up for air. “Cullen. Morning breath.”

“To the Void with your morning breath,” he murmured, his voice dark with arousal.

“Well, if you want an encore presentation of last night’s performance,” she sighed. “You’re going to have to let me up. If at least to get the fire going.”

He sighed with mock indignation; “If you insist.”

He flattened himself against her, taking care to keep his weight from crushing her, but she was still effectively pinned.

“Cullen!” she cried, struggling underneath him, fighting off her giggles.

“I can’t,” he sighed dramatically. “I seem to have lost all will to live, seeing how you’re _leaving_ me here.”

“Cullen!” she growled playfully.

“No, please, go on without me.”

“Are you always this energetic in the morning?” Her lips were pursed, but her eyes sparkled with mirth.

“No, but I am always this incorrigible when I’m deliriously happy.”

_What in the Maker’s name was_ that _?_

He flung himself off of her, sobering quickly; “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“You didn’t mean to tell me I make you happy?” she sat up to look him in the eye, cradling the sheet against her bare chest. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his. “You can’t be afraid to tell me how you feel. You won’t scare me off.”

“Promise?” he asked, allowing his hand to slide into the hair at the nape of her neck.

“Unless I find out this is an elaborate plan to make the Iron Bull jealous, then yes. I promise.”

“Well then, you’re lucky the Iron Bull isn’t my type.”

She snorted at that, but she did nuzzle her nose against his, leaving their foreheads together. It was a shockingly intimate moment. He sighed, feeling his eyebrows draw together. He’d never been so blindingly, deliriously happy. He thought about doing this every morning: waking next to her, taking their sweet time getting out of bed before duty and hunger drove them from the warm sheets. In a fit of saccharine fantasy, he imagined an elaborate bassinet next to her side of the bed; a curly haired little monster blasting through the door to wake his parents…

“You are…oh…I’ve never felt anything like this before,” he admitted. He felt more than heard her breath hitch.

She pulled back suddenly, her eyes soft. They sparkled when she was about to cry—he couldn’t believe he’d never noticed before. She cupped his cheek in her soft hand, and he leaned into the touch.

“I love you,” she said, so simply. Her voice was choked with emotion. “You know that, right?”

He had to stop for a moment. He swallowed hard once. Then twice. The joy in his chest filled him to near bursting; it flared through his body, filling him with pleasant warmth. She was so beautiful, so honest. She was open to him, and she’d just offered herself. He smiled brightly, so wide it hurt his cheeks a little, but he didn’t care.

“I love you too.”

He kneeled in for a slow, lingering kiss. It was so bloody sweet, so tender… he really had never felt anything like this before. She reciprocated, wrapping eager arms around his shoulders. He pressed his fingers into her hips, encircling her in his strong arms once more.

They were interrupted by a sharp knock on her door; “Inquisitor. Seeker Pentaghast wishes to speak with you as soon as possible.”

She rolled her eyes and, with come self-control on her part, extricated herself from his arms; “Someone better be dead. I was having a perfectly lazy morning, too.”

“Maker, don’t _even_ joke,” Cullen laughed, rolling onto his stomach. Emma had wrapped her sheet around herself to dress, and he saw tantalizing flashes of skin beneath the makeshift dress. “I must say, I approve of this morning’s wardrobe choice.”

She answered by chucking a pair of breeches at his head, which landed a full two feet or so short. He groaned, levering himself up; “I suppose I should get back to my duties.”

“Nope,” Emma ordered, sidling up to the bed. “You have my permission to get dressed, but I intend to make this little impromptu conference as brief as possible, and when I get back we’re going to have another discussion about an encore.”

“Your wish is my command,” he answered around a chuckle. She purred and bent to kiss him before pulling on a simple shirt. He settled back into the pillows and sighed once more—this time with contentment, as she walked away.

~~~

A full two hours later, she was still stubbornly packing her rucksack, while he stubbornly continued to say; “No.”

“We don’t have much choice,” Emma countered, frowning as she pulled out yet another diaphanous, silky shirt. “Does everything I own look like it belongs to an Antivan princess? Or an Antivan harlot, if these cuts are to be believed.”

“Yes,” Cullen answered frankly. “And change the subject all you want, I still don’t want you going.”

“It’s two lousy weeks!” she admonished, folding a pair of fur-lined breeches over her arm. “I’ve been gone longer, to places farther.”

“She says as if she’s popping out to market for fresh bread,” he snorted. He sobered quickly, grabbing her hand as soon as she walked within arm’s reach. “Emma, this place is dangerous. We don’t have soldiers there for a reason. I would feel better if you took some soldiers with you.”

“It’s a reconnaissance mission, Cullen,” she repeated for probably the fourth time.

“Then a few of Leliana’s spies,” he begged, taking her other hand. “Or me! Or anything but just a few people.”

“Cullen, darling,” she rubbed her cheek against his; he could hear his stubble rasping over her soft skin. He took the opportunity to crush her in a hug. “I love that you want to come with me. I understand why you feel the need to protect me. But we’re just exploring an area 20 miles from Skyhold. I will be back in two weeks. And I will make it back safe. I promise.”

“Emma,” he whimpered, not easing on the hug. He wanted her to be safe and sound. He wanted her _here._ He understood why she had to go—if the situations had been reversed, he would have gone in a heartbeat. But he was _stuck here_ as always, and he had to watch her leave again.

“I promise,” she repeated, though there was an unidentified emotion in her voice that pulled at something below his naval.

_I don’t like this._

Less than an hour later, Emma was bundled in white furs, which blended well with the mountainside they would be exploring. Her staff was strapped to her back, her small pack over her shoulder, her Knight Enchanter’s hilt tucked into her belt. Cassandra, Blackwall, and Varric were waiting by the main gate with the sturdy horses they would be taking.

Cullen folded Emma into a tight embrace, refusing to believe he would never see her again.

He just had a feeling.

She leaned up on tip toe to kiss him briefly. He tried to savor it as best he could, but just as he was being reassured, she pulled away. She gave him a guarded smile, which never boded well; “I promise.”

Cullen’s heart didn’t stop hammering in his chest until she was long out of sight.

~~~

Six weeks. Six _miserable_ weeks and there was talk of the search being called off, much to his chagrin. They were _lost_ in the mountains. He knew he would never see her again.

Leliana was trying to go over another scouting report again, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was too focused on being despondent. Every day, he watched the gate and every day, he was disappointed. Snow was on the ground and full winter would swing in soon. After that, her chances of coming back alive were dwindling.

Leliana gave a frustrated huff; “Commander, maybe I should come back when you have time to focus.”

“Apologies,” he snapped, turning back in his chair.

“I miss her too,” she said softly. “And we won’t give up. I promise.”

Her wording sent a sharp pain through his chest. He remembered Emma’s goodbye every day, and every day, it became harder to hold onto hope. The dark, amorous marks she left on his neck and shoulder had long faded. Despite having taken to sleeping in her quarters, just to be closer to her if by proxy, her pillows had long lost her scent. The only thing left was the box of honeysuckle plants that the herbalist had shown him how to care for. Even that was beginning to remind him less of her, and more of just a plant in a box.

Cullen pushed away from his desk—between the cold, and the pain, plus his nightmares had returned—concentration was impossible.

“I think I’m going to lie down,” he declared.

Leliana pressed a mock-scandalized hand to her forehead; “Commander Cullen taking a rest without being dragged to bed tooth and nail? Why, I fear I may just faint dead away.”

It wasn’t fair that he was so angry, and she happened to be the recipient right now. He cast a withering scowl at the lithe Spymaster, but chose to remain silent. If he was being honest, she wasn’t exactly _wrong._ Today was just…particularly bad. And he just didn’t want to be around people right now. So he vowed to take his work to Emma’s quarters and just…hope.

“Riders! Approaching Skyhold!”

One of the scouts was scrambling across the battlements, brushing past his Commander and heedless of the ice. Cullen reminded himself he would have to have another safety discussion with his men about the battlements in winter time. Regardless, the scout on the highest part of the battlements began the process of opening the gates.

“Andraste preserve me,” another of his scouts, this one a sharper eyed woman, gasped at his elbow.  “I think…”

He saw the slash of green before he saw anything else. The Inquisitor was approaching, riding with her four companions at a reckless speed.

_Emma is back. She’s back! She found her way here and…_

The bubble of joy that threatened to burst in his chest suddenly deflated. He counted 4 horses, but only 3 riders. As they got closer, he could see why—Emma was not riding under her own power. She was clutched to Blackwall’s chest, her head lolled back on his shoulder.

Cullen felt his heart stop; his breath came in painful gasps. He rushed down the steps, leaping down the last three or four, to get to Skyhold’s main gate. Cassandra and Varric rode in first, no worse for wear.

Blackwall came in last, and followed Cullen’s silent plea, handing Emma down to his outstretched arms. Without even inspecting her, he knew it was bad. He brushed the bloody strands of hair from her face and collapsed into the snow with grief, clutching her tightly.

“Oh, angel,” he whimpered, holding her close.

Emma was badly hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I would stop after the last one, but nope. I've decided to continue because of my lovely readers who give me SO much encouragement!! You make writing this story so great! I love you for it.
> 
> Angtsy fluff chapter to come.


	14. When He Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma is badly injured after a mission gone wrong, and she might not make it out alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after 'When He Loved'

“Emma,” he whimpered, supporting her head. “Angel, please.”

It was no use, of course. He could see where she bled, where her wounds were worst. He could hear her groaning in pain; her breath was so shallow and her skin was so pale. Her lips were blue. He was having awful flashbacks to Haven, but now was worse.

Now, he loved her. And he was going to lose her.

“Cullen,” Cassandra’s voice was choked with emotion, but she was tugging on his arms insistently. “The healers. They want to see her.”

“To the _Void_ with the healers,” he growled. There was a raw, feral edge to his voice that scared even him. “What happened?”

“Curly,” Varric began, and cut off immediately when Cullen whirled on him, eyes wild. The dwarf put his hands out in front of him in a nonthreatening gesture. “We can tell you all about it, but right now, she’s bleeding out you just holding her like that. She needs a healer.”

Cullen grimaced—he knew it to be true. He didn’t loosen his grip, but when the healers swooped in on them, he put up a gentle hand; “I’ll take her to her chambers. She’ll be better there.”

“Commander, we really should take her to the—.”

“Best do as he says, love,” Blackwall’s rough voice came from behind him. He was smeared with Emma’s blood; he’d discarded the soiled glove that had held her to his chest. The old Warden was definitely affected. Everyone would be.

Cullen cast a silent glance at Blackwall, naked gratitude shining in his amber eyes. The other man nodded firmly, taking the horses by the reins and leading them to the barn.

“Very well,” one of the healers sighed. “Take the Inquisitor to her chambers, we’ll fetch Mother Giselle and Elan Ve’mal.”

Cullen whisked her up the stairs, shouldering through the growing crowd. Everyone had heard the announcement, and rumors that the Inquisitor had returned at last were spreading.

“Get out of the way!” Cullen growled to a few visiting nobles who’d gathered at the main gate of Skyhold. He heard them gasp, appalled by his rudeness, but he was beyond caring.

It took him mere moments to have Emma laid out on her bed. It was messy from when he slept in it. Her sheets would be bloody. He didn’t care. She was here, and she was in his arms, and now she may die. He knew wounds like these, and combined with her disappearance… There was no telling what would happen.

Mother Giselle swept into the room not moments after he’d so gingerly placed Emma on her bed. The apothecary, an elf named Elan, scurried in after her with a bag full of various herbs and potions. Leliana and Josephine followed and slammed the door behind them, earning a sharp protest from whomever was on the other side of the door.

“Oh, Maker,” Leliana gasped, her voice high and rough.

Josephine’s coffee-colored eyes were teary and red; she didn’t even have her writing board with her. She stood at the foot of Emma’s bed, her slim hands clasped together so tight, her knuckles turned white. Cullen was sitting in the chair at Emma’s bedside, behind Mother Giselle, his hands steepled in front of him.  

“It would be best if I were to work on this in private,” Giselle said gently, turning to the advisors. Cullen blanched, ready to argue, but Leliana’s insistent grip on his shoulder silenced him.

“Of course, Mother Giselle,” the Spymaster answered. “We’ll leave you to your work. Please keep us informed of any changes.”

Cullen filed out behind Josephine and Leliana; catching one more glimpse of Emma… _his Emma_ …sprawled out on her bed. Giselle was stripping her armor while Elan prepared her poultices. The space just outside Emma’s private staircase was mercifully empty. Leliana immediately collapsed onto the staircase, her hands clasped in front of her in silent prayer. Josephine burst into hysterical, near-silent tears. Cullen gathered her into his arms, needing some sort of contact, as he let his own tears flow.

~~~

After the three advisors pulled themselves together, they set to work. Leliana began spreading the word to her agents, hoping to intercept rumors before they reached their enemies. Josephine began writing her contacts and rescheduling visits to Skyhold. She also took charge of informing Emma’s parents and family of her injuries.

Cullen decided to solidify security and prepare his troops. The Inquisitor was injured, so they were more vulnerable than ever. His heart wasn’t quite in it, though. He handed the final roster of to Ser Rylan, his second in Command, and sought out a bit of solitude.

Evidence of Emma’s injury was scattered about Skyhold. Emma’s closest friends and companions were despondent at best; Cullen came across what he figured was a Unicorn, but turns out it was just Varric praying desperately in his corner. Cole seemed to be taking it remarkably hard, as he had joined Solas in his rotunda. However, it was eerily silent, as Solas seemed to be quietly brooding at his desk. Even Sera and Bull were sedate.

Cullen crossed the desolate training yard in a few quick strides. He came across Cassandra, bundled in furs, but not going through her usual paces in her usual spot. Instead, she sat on the stump, fighting tears.

“What happened?” he growled.

Cassandra straightened, but there was a defeated slump in her shoulders; “We reached the spot relatively easily, though it took longer than we anticipated. We found a tunnel at the back of the cave we were checking—it led straight to a Venatori camp. They had scouted the tunnel, widened it. They were going to march on Skyhold, go around the mountains, and be at our back door before the first signs of thaw. We would have been decimated.

“Emma managed to take down many of their higher ranked officers, but they were ruthless. They descended on us, keeping organization even when their leadership fell. You know how Emma is in combat—so stubborn, so single minded. She was covered in blood, and not all of it was hers. Finally, she ordered us to retreat—we were vastly outnumbered—and she managed to collapse the tunnel. Thankfully, the Venatori will not be able to march through there.”

“That explains her injuries,” Cullen muttered.

“Some of them. The puncture wounds, the burns, yes,” Cassandra returned with a shrug. “We should have returned three weeks ago. But then a blizzard pinned us down for about nine days, and after that it was one thing after another. Emma sustained her injuries in an avalanche.”

Cullen paled—he’d heard horror stories of massive sheets of rock and snow suddenly separating from the mountainside at the slightest provocation. From what he understood, it was a nightmare, and few of those who were caught in one survived.

Cassandra continued, the raw horror in her eyes so familiar to him; “She got us to safety, redirected the snow with her magic. I thought… I thought it was amazing. But she was exhausted, and wounded, and eventually the snow overtook her, and she was buried. None of us wanted to believe she was gone, so we stayed and tried to find her. For two days… we dug. We shouted, and dug some more… We were just about to give up hope when Blackwall found her in a buried ice cave, barely big enough for just her. We still don’t know how she survived… but she was broken and unresponsive. But she was breathing, and that was enough for us. So we took her and rode her back to Skyhold with all haste… And you know the rest.”

Cullen was silent. Cassandra was crying. He knelt before her, taking her hands in his; “Cassandra. It’s not your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have let her…” Cassandra broke off suddenly, overtaken by racking sobs. “Now she may die. All because of me.”

“She’s not going to die,” Cullen replied sharply. It was as much to convince her as it was to convince himself. “She will survive this, Cassandra. Emma is strong—and she had been through worse.”

Cassandra gave him a weak smile, but her eyes were still forlorn; “What’s going to happen?”

Cullen felt so awful for snapping at her; she sounded so much like a small girl, it took all of his self control to not fold her into a comforting embrace; “I don’t know, Cassandra. I wish I did.”

The edge of emotion and fear in his voice was apparent; Cassandra squeezed his hands lightly, wiping her tears; “How are you holding up?”

“Honestly?” he laughed darkly; there was no mirth or humor in it. “I’m terrified. We’ve only just… I can’t lose her. I just… I can’t. It would kill me.”

Cassandra knew the dark and sordid details of his past. She saw how much he’d improved since he and Emma had started to spend time together. And now he felt like he was about to lose her. He couldn’t even _see_ her. She was probably the one person in Skyhold who would understand.

~~~

The day dragged on, the tension in the keep thick and tight. Cullen delegated to Barris and Rylan most of the day. As the sun went down, he expected the normal rise of noise and clatter from Herald’s Rest, at the very least.

The grounds were unnervingly silent. It was unpleasant, to say the least.

Once it was full dark, Cullen figured he should at least get some rest. He grimaced at his loft—it would be drafty, but he supposed he should sleep in his own bed, especially if Mother Giselle was still working. But just as he was putting away his papers and preparing for bed, the woman herself came into his office. She was obviously tired, and he tried to ignore the bloodstains on her robes and sleeves.

“Mother Giselle?” his voice had a thread of tentative hope.

“She’s stable,” the relief in her voice was palpable. “But still severe. We managed to set broken bones and stem all bleeding internal and external. At this point, it is up to the Inquisitor, but I have high hopes. If she makes it through the night, she will live.”

Cullen suddenly felt lighter, like a massive weight had just been lifted; “Can… Can I see her?”

“I came to you first,” Giselle replied with a smile. “Go to her, if you wish.”

Cullen nearly bowled her over to get to his door. He hadn’t seen her since her return that afternoon, and he wondered—what would he find? What would he see? Was she alright? Would she even make it through the night?

He slowed only when he reached her quarters. The smell of blood was overwhelming. He ignored the two servants who were whisking away bloody sheets and dressings, as well as a bucket of red-tinted water. Emma was nestled in her bed, and a fire was popping merrily in her hearth. If it weren’t for her ashen complexion and the many _many_ bandages that circled over her arms, chest, and neck, he would just think she was sound asleep. He felt the wave of despair that threatened to crush him; somehow this was better and worse than not knowing…not seeing. He shucked his coat and boots, tossing them over her armchair. She was mostly on one side of the bed, so he curled on the other, pretending it was the most normal thing in the world.

He was so tired, but he didn’t want to sleep. Something dark in him told him if he slept, he would never see her again. So he fought it as best he could, despite how heavy his eyelids were. He ran a gentle, tender knuckle over her cheeks and then, and only then, did he allow himself to cry.

His sobs were silent, but they racked his whole body. He felt it deep in the pit of his chest; all his anxiety and anger and sorrow poured out of him in those hours. Tears flowed freely, dampening the pillow beneath him, but he didn’t care. He squeezed her fingers, and when he had no tears left to give, he lie there shaking.

“Please come back to me, angel.”

~~~

He was cold. And exhausted. He felt like he had to wake for some reason, but he didn’t know what it was. He didn’t know if he wanted to. He’d had the oddest dreams… not nightmares, necessarily, but certainly not pleasant. Maybe a few more hours…

“Cullen,” a ragged voice whispered.

His eyes shot open as he scrambled awake. He was laying in Emma’s bed, as he had been for the past six weeks, and there she was. Small and broken, but awake and giving him a wan if genuine smile.

“There he is,” she sighed, her eyes fluttering.

“Emma,” he thought he’d cried himself out the night before, but it seemed he had more to give. He desperately clung to her blankets, nestling into the crook of her shoulder, feeling the tears come again. “Oh, angel, I thought I’d never get to hear your voice again.”

He was raw. His edges were broken. Bleeding. Shattered. The past weeks had been too much to bear; but then, in a simple gesture, she healed him. She simply lifted her hand to his hair and turned to kiss his temple. In that simple little gesture of tenderness, she scooped all the pieces of him that had broken over the past month and put him back together. She was here, and she was _real,_ and she would live.

Thankfully, she didn’t tell him it would be alright, or that she was fine, or worst of all not to cry. She just held him, stroking the hair at the back of his head, pressing gentle kisses to everywhere she could reach. And he cried. For the first time, he cried openly in front of her; he showed her his most jagged edges and she didn’t flinch.

“I love you, Emma,” he sobbed, putting a tentative arm around her.

“I love you too, Cullen,” she sighed. “I missed you.”

And just like that, like no time had passed, like this was totally normal, the hurt faded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably gonna be the last direct continuation for a while. Sorry this chapter is so...angsty. I plan to do some more fluff here pretty soon, but I've wanted to explore this for a while. 
> 
> Thanks again to all my lovely readers who read, favorite, leave kudos and comment. You make my day EVERY time I look and see your lovely words. Seriously, thank you all so so so much!! You make writing this so worth every bit of writer's block!!


	15. When He Played

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Emma engage in some childish behavior during a perfect snowfall... But some details of their future need to be discussed, and Cullen worries his dream won't line up with Emma's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smutty and Fluffy and DEFINITELY NSFW Oh My
> 
> Sorry for the update delay. Hopefully, the length will make up for it.

It was snowing.

It wasn’t one of those bitter-cold blizzards they were used to, but a pleasant and beautiful snowfall. It was the kind of snow that blessed a place with a sort of fleeting magic—big, fluff flakes falling from the sky; the golden lights of the lanterns diffused all across the courtyard, making it almost as bright as day; a muffled silence across all of Skyhold. It was a quiet, perfect night.

It was on this quiet, perfect night that Cullen found his duties drawing him from the thing he wanted most—hot tea and a fluffy blanket in front of Emma’s fireplace. Unfortunately, such a lovely evening had to give way to troop movements and Lyrium shipments for their Templars, and various other essential minutia required to run an army. He glared at the slowly (but steadily) shrinking pile of papers still requiring his approval. It was going to be a late night.

He listened to the soft music rising from the Herald’s Rest; Maryden was in top form this evening. Perhaps the snow was inspiring everyone. He groaned to himself and tossed the document he was working on into his ‘done’ pile. He pulled the next document (looked like some sort of recruitment report) but he found himself unable to concentrate. He read the same line three or four times without retaining its information.

“I suppose that’s a sign that it’s time to take a break,” he sighed. He placed his quill pen back in its holder (a Satinalia gift from Josephine that he rather liked, for once) and shoved away from his desk. He huddled into his thick coat (another gift, this one from Mia) and made his way onto the ramparts. He figured Emma might still be up, and if not, she wouldn’t mind if he woke her… he thought.

He decided to cut through the courtyard instead of crossing through Solas’s rotunda. The second his boots hit the snow, the falling flakes catching in his hair and on the fur-lined ruff on his coat, he became overwhelmed with a sense of nostalgia. Maker, but how he missed home. He missed Ferelden, and especially Honnleath. He missed his siblings; he missed the food; he missed the simplicity of life; he just missed _everything._ He knew the Inquisition wouldn’t last forever, but… what would happen after all this?

His train of thought was broken by a flash of blue and a high-pitched giggle. He quirked a brow and searched the shadows where he saw the movement, but nothing. He made to turn away but— _there it is again!_

He paused, dramatically sinking into a defensive posture. He could have easily reached for his sword, but whatever was skulking in the shadows giggled again.

_I know that laugh._

Before he could even finish his thought, a snowball the size of his fist came hurtling out of the shadows, hitting him square in the chest. Whoever was doing it at this point couldn’t control their laughter.

“That is not fair!” he shouted into the shadows. “I can’t see you to retaliate!”

“That’s the point of hiding silly! But if you insist on a handicap, I suppose I can show myself.”

Emma emerged from the shadows, and he had to catch his breath for a half-minute. She was dressed in furs, but far from the bulky, practical things she wore when travelling, these were tailored to fit her perfectly. Tall white boots melded seamlessly with supple, white breeches; a silver coat with a vivid blue cincher around the waist and slim-fitting white gloves completed the look; everything was trimmed with fur so soft, so bright, it looked near indistinguishable from the fluffy snow falling around them.

“Emma, you look stunning,” he sighed. He took her in from head to toe. He adored the way she was wearing her hair—a simple bun with a skinny braid wrapped around the base.

“It was a Satinalia gift from my sister,” Emma said, spinning for him. He had to admire the way the breeches clung to her thighs and hips. “Josephine approves, so obviously it’s in fashion. You really like it?”

“I love it,” Cullen said softly. His gooey grin quickly became a dark smirk. “Which is why it’s such a shame I have to ruin it already.”

He kneeled to scoop a handful of snow into his hands, packing it tight. She gave a girlish squeal before flouncing down the stairs towards the lower courtyard. He lobbed the snowball at her, hitting her dead square between her shoulder blades. She pitched forward, but caught herself; she was laughing so hard, he could spot tears sparkling at the corners of her eyes. He took the opportunity to give chase, and when she noticed, she dashed off with a yelp.

He tried to follow her, but the snow was slightly deeper here and she had a bit of a head start. She ducked behind one of the abandoned merchant’s booths. When he approached, ready to surprise her with an affectionate tackle into the snow bank, he could feel a slight impact with his shoulder. He turned his eyes on her and lunged. She danced out of his path, just beyond his fingers and dashed for the stables. He scooped up an unnecessarily large handful of snow and threw it with all (or most; he didn’t want to hurt her) of his strength. It caught her right on her hip; she was howling with laughter at this point, and she had to stop to catch her breath.

He took his chance, breaking into a full run and tackling her about the waist. In a flail of limbs they went tumbling into the soft snow. He turned their bodies at the last minute to cushion her fall. They landed with minimal impact—the snow was quite the cushion after all—and her laughter soon became infectious. She rolled off of him, laying flat on her back. He suddenly couldn’t control his laughter. They stayed that way for a while, lying in the snow and giggling like children.

She sighed; “I haven’t played like that in… a long time.”

“Me neither,” he admitted, turning towards her. Her eyes were catching the reflection of the lanterns; it was an intoxicating effect.

“You? Play? Cullen, I’m shocked!” she quipped. He loved her smile on most occasions, but tonight it was so bright and wild and _infectious_ he found himself trapped. When they made eye contact, she could sense the intensity of his gaze, and her laughter petered off. Even in the dim lighting, he could see a flush creep across her cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold. “Cullen, I need to ask you something.”

“Anything,” he reached over to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She leaned into the touch with a smile, and he couldn’t help but return with a goofy grin.

“Do you miss Ferelden?”

“Excuse me?” he sat up, ignoring the snow seeping through his breeches. _Where did this come from?_

“I mean, when this is all over,” she swept her arm around to indicate the Inquisition. “When we’ve saved the world and brought order? Then what? Do you miss Ferelden enough that you want to return?”

He sighed; hadn’t he just been thinking this not five minutes ago? He and Emma had spoken before about possible plans for after, but it hadn’t gone much beyond them wanting to be together. He’d envisioned moving back to Ferelden—to Honnleath—finally settling down, maybe getting a dog, having a gaggle of rugrats. He’d never brought it up, for many reasons—for one, it seemed presumptuous. He had no idea what Emma wanted after this. Maybe she wanted to return to Ostwick, as a Circle mage or a noblewoman that she was born to be… Could he be that person for her? Could he give up his dreams of a simple life in his homeland to be with her?

He noticed he’d been quiet for too long; her eyes had steadily become more guarded. He took her hand in his, noting how cold and stiff his fingers were. They were both drenched, and the snow was getting heavier. It was late.

“Maybe we should discuss this inside?” he indicated her tower, with its big hearth and plush rugs and big four-poster.

She looked in the direction he indicated and squeezed his hand; “You sure you don’t want to go to _your_ room?”

He gave a small smile; she always made sure they spent equal time in his space as much as hers. Probably to make him comfortable, but in this case, comfort meant warmth and not a tiny room with a hole in the ceiling.

“I’m positive,” he answered, pulling her upright with him.

Silently, they walked back to her chambers; she never once let go of his hand, and for that he was grateful. He _hated_ when they had to have a serious discussion—part of him felt like every twist and turn in the road brought her further from him. It reassured him to know she clung just as tightly to him as he did to her.

Her room was blessedly warm—it seemed the servants had gone about and lit the fires. A metal rack stood near the hearth. Emma tugged him over to the fireplace, only letting go when she started to peel off her wet outer layers.

“I suppose we’re staying here tonight?” she asked, hanging the silver coat over the rack.

He nodded, following her lead. When her coat, boots and gloves were left out to dry, she went behind her privacy screen, while Cullen went to the small trunk at the base of her wardrobe. He’d taken to leaving some of his clothes in her room; he’d started to resent the pointed looks he was given when he had the same clothes on after a night with Emma.

He pulled on a pair of soft breeches, but left his chest bare—all the better to get warm and dry. Emma emerged, less wearing a red, wool shirt and more being engulfed by it. He had to smile—it was his, and one he was sure he hadn’t left here.

“I’ve been looking for that,” he quipped. He leaned back, making an appreciative noise regardless.

She smirked at him, her voice taking on a teasing tone; “It looks better on me, though. Don’t you think?”

“Mmm,” he affirmed. He held out one of his arms. “Come here, you.”

Without hesitation, she cuddled into the nook he created. He sometimes marveled at how well she fit there. She ran a hand over his chest, leaning into his shoulder. He felt a soft, fluttery feeling in his chest at the loving domesticity of the scenario—her wearing his shirt, cuddled with him on a thick, plush rug in front of a roaring fire while snow softly continued to fall outside. He didn’t think he could be much happier.

“So answer me honestly, Cullen,” she murmured. “And don’t just say you want to be with me, because I know that. I want to know what your _ideal_ scenario is after all this.”

He sighed, tugging Emma a little closer. She buried herself in the crook of his neck. He watched the flames dance in the hearth and ran an affectionate hand up and down her arm. Was his dream worth it? He could lie, tell her that going to Ostwick to live with her family would be the best. Or staying in Skyhold, managing what remained of the Inquisition together. He thought to the little plot of land where he grew up; he remembered playing with his siblings, and how happy his mother and father had seemed. He thought to his time in the Circles; the pain he endured there… and how much he longed to return to his old life. He wanted to be done with swords and armor and combat and troop movements. After over a decade of constant fighting, he wanted a wife. He wanted a family.

He sighed; “My ideal scenario is returning to Honnleath. Take our share of the Inquisition’s wealth, buy a spot of land. I would… I want to get married, have children. I want to be near my family and live a simple life, away from politics and combat. At least for a while, I just want a private life with you and me.”

She was still, so still it actually made him nervous. Her hand had paused on his chest, and for a moment she didn’t even shift.

_Fuck. I said the wrong thing. She doesn’t… she doesn’t want that. I can take it back! I can…_

“So what you’re saying,” her voice shook with some unidentified emotion. “Is you want to get married. And start a family.”

He held his breath for a moment; if he was dishonest here, it would catch up with him. He didn’t want either of them to be unhappy; though he was willing to leave his dream behind for her, he knew it would hurt her if he told her any less than the whole truth.

“Yes,” he near whispered. He tightened his hand on her arm, preparing for the worst.

With surprising swiftness, she shifted her body. She was straddling his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck. She was so close—he slid his hand down to her hip, using his other hand to brace himself. Her eyes sparkled with fresh tears, but her smile was so genuine and bright…

“That sounds perfect,” she sighed.

“Really?” he couldn’t control the bubble of joy expanding in his chest.

“There is nothing on this earth I want more than that.” Her voice was so happy, so choked with emotion. He could feel a few tears leak down his cheeks as he pressed his forehead to hers.

“But,” he began, clearing his throat around the embarrassing hiccup of sentiment in his voice. “You’re family, your life in Ostwick.”

“I’ll be able to see my family, Cullen,” she nuzzled her forehead against his. “But that life you want, it’s something I want too. I want that simple life of just you and me, and whatever strange little family we assemble.”

In a swift movement, he rolled her on her back, and in that instant the feeling of their moment changed. He imagined her in their future together once again, this time sprawled over their bed. He imagined lazy, intimate mornings where he did nothing for a solid hour after sunset other than see to her pleasure. He saw her eyes darken, and he knew the heat in his eyes must be apparent. Her breath sped, causing her breasts to heave in his shirt. The collar was much too big for her, and spilled over the shoulder. The effect was…pleasing.

“If we’re going to have a family some day,” he murmured, tangling his hand into the hair at the back of her neck. She arched into the touch, lengthening the already long line of her throat. “I say we get to practicing.”

She giggled softly before he crushed his lips to hers. He adjusted his position over her, so his hips sat flush between her thighs. He could feel the wet heat radiating from her center while she circled her hips against his. She opened her mouth in a little sigh, and he went on the attack—teasing, tasting, tempting. He curled his tongue up and ran the tip along the roof of her mouth, and the sound she made sent a bolt of lightning straight through him.

He swallowed her little moans, groaning a deep, guttural growl in his throat. He nibbled on the corner of her mouth, tugging her hair tighter. Not enough to hurt, but just enough pressure to bite, to sting. He felt a gush of heat on his thigh, and he knew she liked that. His erection strained painfully against his breeches, and he knew it would be so easy to simply plunge into her with a few twists of his wrist.

But she wasn’t having any of that. She didn’t seem to be in the mood to receive; she gripped his shoulders tightly, pulling herself into a seated position. He left the hand tangled in her hair, even when she gave him a sly grin. She skimmed her hands over his chest, stopping to tweak at one of his nipples. The sharp little sensation made everything about him stand at attention; his pulse thrummed so quick and loud he could hear it in his ears. She moved one of her hands to his groin, rubbing his hardness over his breeches.

His breath caught in his throat; he felt a delicious heat spread over his face. He could scarcely move when she began working the laces on his breeches. He felt dizzy—drunk—from her presence, her raw sexuality… the heat in her gaze could have melted him on the spot and he would go happily. She began to press soft, deliberate kisses over his collarbone, his chest, his abdomen, his hip…

“What,” he swallowed, trying to catch his breath. “What are you doing?”

“Something I’ve been meaning to try,” she sighed. She undid the final lace, pulling his breeches open. His cock fairly ran out to greet her, as painfully erect as he was. She looked at him with a heady combination of lust and admiration, and if he didn’t feel 10 feet tall, he never would. She wrapped a soft hand around the base of the shaft, squeezing oh so gently. He drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, Maker, Cullen.”

The reverence in her voice did something strange to his insides. He watched her tease and test him, for a while. She had a sword-sharp focus on his reactions; her mouth was so close he could feel her uneven breath on him. Finally, with certainty, she wrapped her lips around the head. With consistent pressure, using her tongue to tease him, she slowly sank to his root. She pressed her tongue upward, pushing the head of him right against her soft palette. He made a strangled noise as she began running the tip of her tongue against the fat vein that ran along the underside of his cock.

She pulled back, covering her teeth with her lips and grasped at his base once more. She began to move her head at an easy pace, matching each bob with a twisting pump from her fist. The differing pressures, her swirling tongue, her twisting hand…

_Maker, I’m going to come!_

He pulled perhaps a touch too sharply on her hair, yanking her off of him. He’d never felt like this before, this aching need, this delicious pressure right on the edge of orgasm, but not quite there.

For a moment, she held his eyes, but with a smirk, she moved forward, pressing him back into the carpet. He froze, somewhere between fear and delectable anticipation. She tossed a thigh over his hip, pressing the opening of her cunt right against him. She was sopping wet and so hot; he could feel her dripping along his length. She kept her shirt on, and his breeches were merely pushed to his hips, which somehow made it all the more exciting.

“Emma,” he whispered, gripping her thighs.

Her eyes darkened and her smirk turned into a more genuine smile. She sat back, and with a low groan that he would give up anything to be able to hear daily, she slowly impaled herself on him. She pressed down, sheathing him one hot, wet glorious inch at a time. When she was about halfway, she pulled back _agonizingly_ slowly, dragging her wet heat up to the top once more. She was teasing him.

And he couldn’t take it.

He gripped her hips and slammed upwards, hilting himself in her. He felt the slight pressure of that barrier in the back, and for a moment, he feared he hurt her. But a mere observation told him that was not the case. She wriggled on top of him, panting, adjusting the angle slightly to get her best pressure.

He angled her back, running the head of his cock along that spot right on the top. She made high pitched, keening moans as he reached between them to circle the hard knot of her clit. The tight heat signaling the beginning of his orgasm nearly overtook him. The animal moans, the high pitched gasps, coming from him were near unrecognizable—his control slipped away from him as he rutted against her.

He felt her come; he knew from the flutters of her tight cunt and the gush of wetness between her legs. She shattered in his arms, falling forward against his chest. They lost their rhythm, and all he could do was piston into her wildly. He heard the wet slap against her pert ass, and he gripped the rounded curve just hard enough to leave deep, claiming marks. He latched onto her pulse point, licking and sucking, as his moans grew out of control.

He couldn’t hold back; his world narrowed to a dark pinpoint and he knew he was dying. With one more slam of her hips, his whole world exploded into bright, glorious white. He cried out, loud and uncaring, as he emptied into her, continuing to thrust well past the moment of climax. He finally slowed and stopped, though he didn’t stop holding her. She stayed impaled on his for a time while they both desperately tried to catch their breath.

Finally, she raised herself off of him—he hissed at the pins and needles sensation of falling out of her—and she bent to kiss him. There was a dreamy, euphoric look in her eye; “That was perfect, love.”

“You were beautiful, angel,” he moaned, pressing light kisses to the corners of her smiling mouth.

And she was. And as he imagined one last time their future, for the first time, he saw them living their dream. Their ideal—if not perfect—life. He realized then it didn’t matter where they ended up, if it was their little farm in Ferelden or stayed in Skyhold forever.

As long as he was with her, it would be perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this one. I know how much my lovely readers love a good sexy romp, so I delivered. Because I'm a people pleaser ;)
> 
> If you like this chapter, please let me know, and I will definitely make more.
> 
> Thank you again for taking the time to read my silly little story. You really REALLY do make my day!!!


	16. When She Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before the battle with Corypheus, Emma and Cullen share one last moment together. They know they may never see each other again, but in the end they knew love. And it was enough.

She came out of the temple so different. Her eyes occasionally got this faraway quality, like she was listening to voices in her head—which he supposed she was. It was unnerving, but she would still gaze at him fondly with that warm, unguarded smile of hers, and he would be put at ease. She was still her, and she still loved him.

She was still his Emma.

But she was still different. Now, when she issued her orders, there was a sense of finality—a sense of authority and certainty—to her voice. She’d faced Mythal’s Great Dragon…and won. She’d stepped into the Well of Sorrows and came out the conquering hero, bathed in the magic of the well. Despite how certain he was of his love for her, and her love and desire for him, he became more and more uncertain that he was good enough for her. With each passing day, she became the heroic figure of magic and Gods that the people believed her to be.

He’d only just returned from the Arbor Wilds when she’d called him to the War Room. Corypheus would be on the war path for stealing the Eluvian. And she would be his target. They only had a few precious, blessed days left before she would inevitably face her destiny, and he would have to willingly send her to him.

_I’m not ready for this._

Her plans were sound, his army was ready to back her up. Skyhold was a fortress, and they would not be surprised like they were in Haven. He had to believe that she would stand triumphant after all this. But how could he? How could he have faith that she would return to him? How could he believe he deserved her, after all this, after everything he’d been through, that this world would allow him his beautiful Emma?

_Maker, I love her. What would I do without her?_

Not for the first time, he glowered at his stack of papers, unable to concentrate. Everything felt so final, like it was all going to change. Nothing would be the same; and he feared for the one constant in his life. So he did something he so rarely did anymore.

He sought out the tiny temple deep in the heart of Skyhold, and he prayed.

He lit the candles at the feet of the Andrastian statue and kneeled. His words were that of the Chant, a prayer for the lost and fallen; the words reaffirmed his faith. But deep in his heart were simple pleas and sincere sorrow. His deepest fears were coming to light, and all he wanted was some sort of sign that Emma would come back to him.

_Send her back to me in one piece. I just want her to come back to me, safe and sound. I want our life together. Maker, I want to marry this girl. I will gladly give my life if she returns safely._

“This must be the end times, if Commander Cullen recites the Chant so earnestly.”

He must have lost concentration; Emma was standing beside him, and he hadn’t even heard her come in. She had a gentle hand between his shoulder blades, and it offered him a small bit of tangible comfort. That tenuous connection… it was all he needed.

“A prayer for all we’ve lost,” he offered, though she hadn’t asked. “And… those I’m afraid to lose.”

“You’re afraid?” she sounded more concerned than biting. She was curling her fingers in a slow, soothing motion that he never wanted to stop.

It would be easy to lie. It would be simple to say _Yes, our enemy is powerful, who wouldn’t be afraid?_ But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let this be their last moments together knowing he didn’t tell her everything.

“I’m afraid,” he whimpered. “More afraid than I’ve ever been in my life. It feels like every time we get settled, there’s always something more. And now, I’m going to lose you.”

He straightened and crossed the small space. She was at his side, never once losing contact for more than a few moments. She didn’t say anything. Perhaps she was just as afraid as he was? It was hard to imagine. She put a gentle hand on his upper arm, and he absently rested his hand over hers.

“Andraste preserve me, I must send you to him again.”

It hurt to breath. He could feel his fingers shaking, but he didn’t let go of her hand. He didn’t turn to her—he feared what he would see if he looked at her right now.

“I’m scared too.”

Her hand tightened on his arm. There were tears in her voice.

“Cullen, if I fail… If I don’t make it back…”

She couldn’t finish her sentence. He turned to her, cupping her face in his hands. He opened his mouth to try and say something, but it came out as a pathetic gasp.

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” she whimpered. Her tears began to fall, pooling over his fingers. “I’m scared, Cullen. I wish you could be with me, if only so I can see you when…”

“Maker, no,” his voice was a harsh rasp choked with despair. His hands flew to her hips, and he drew her close. Almost like an automatic reaction, she looped her arms around him; he could feel her fingers flex on his back. She was shaking with silent tears. “Whatever happens, Emma. Whatever happens, you _will_ come back.”

“But, if I—.”

“No,” Cullen drew her back once more, lacing his fingers in her hair and resting his forehead against hers. “I can’t think that you won’t come back to me. To entertain any other thought… I can’t.”

His tears flowed, though they weren’t the broken sobs he was expecting, but a silent trickle down his cheeks. He could scarcely breathe as they clung to one another.

“I’ll…” she swallowed. “I will try.”

“I don’t want to lose you, Emma.”

He bent to kiss her. Part of him wanted it to be full of hot, barely restrained passion. Another part of him wanted it to be unbearably sweet and tender. If it was to be their _last_ kiss, he wanted it to eclipse all others. He wanted her to consume him, to engulf him completely and, if only for a moment, get lost in their embrace.

Instead, it was full of unrestrained, agonizing sadness. They very well knew it could be their last kiss. He pressed his lips to hers, allowing himself to linger.

_I want to remember this… Just in case._

“I want to spend the night with you,” Emma sighed between kisses. “Just us. No work or others or distractions.”

She left the part nagging at them unsaid.

_If she never comes back, I want our last hours to be just us._

So that night, they spent time in Cullen’s chambers. The cool air drifted in from his ceiling, and she laid there bathed in moonlight. They didn’t make love, or even talk much. There wasn’t anything to say. So they simply lay in his bed, curled around one another, memorizing the planes of each others’ faces with tender strokes.

They fought sleep. They didn’t want to waste precious hours on sleep, but he was exhausted and she needed her rest. She leaned into him to kiss him one more time.

“I love you, Emma,” he whispered, fighting the tears once again. He clung to her so tightly… “Please come back to me.”

“I love you too,” she sighed, curling into his chest. He would continue to marvel at how well she fit into that space, like they were literally made for each other. He concentrated on her scent, the sound of her breath, the feel of her hair between his fingers.

He tried to ignore what was left unsaid.

~~~

The next morning dawned cold and gray. It was impossible to ignore what was to happen. Emma was already gathering her clothes. I wouldn’t be long before she was prepared for her short journey. She gazed back at him, and there was nothing more to say. At this point, she would come back or she wouldn’t. Begging her to return to him would not make it so.

She sat at the foot of the bed, cupping his cheek with her palm. She leaned into him and pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his lips. He leaned his forehead against hers, running his hand through her hair. They were silent—it was their last moment, one way or the other.

Barely 2 hours later, she was gathered with her small party at the gates. He watched her lead her horse over the bridge. He drank in her image, willingly watching her go. As much as it hurt, as desperately as it ached, he had to. He knew it. Didn’t mean he had to like it.

As if she could sense his gaze, she turned just before riding over the rise that would take her out of his sight. He couldn’t see her face, but he did see her lift her hand in a soft and fond farewell. He waved back pitifully.

_Please. Come back to me, angel._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. 
> 
> This chapter was tricky for me to write--an emotional climax was reached in the previous chapter, so it made this one harder. Plus, the in-game scene in the little chapel was so emotionally satisfying, it was hard to top(hence the liberal use of in-game dialogue). Hope I managed.
> 
> As always, I would like to thank the people who read and comment and I just love you guys!! So sorry about the update delay, and I'm sorry this one is short!!
> 
> Sadly, I think we are coming to an end.


	17. When She Returned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma returns, the conquering hero. A celebration is in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Of course.

The conquering hero. She returned triumphant. She was surrounded by her adoring public—people who reached desperate hands for her, just to touch her… and she only had eyes for him.

Her armor was battered, her staff broken, her Knight Enchanter’s hilt blackened; a gash above her eye caked black blood to the hair that fell in front of her face. A nasty bruise colored the visible skin around her collarbone. And she was still the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.

Propriety would demand he wait for her to ascend, to finish with the people and disappear into Skyhold.

_Screw propriety!_

He dashed down the steps to her; she ran at him, like they were at the end of some fairy tale. About half-way up the stairs, they met. A soft grunt escaped him when she collided with his chest, but he didn’t care. She was buried in his arms; she was _real_ , and she was here. The collapsed to their knees, deep in an embrace he hoped would never end.

“Welcome home, angel,” he whispered, brushing her hair back from her face to kiss her unbloodied cheek.

She burrowed into the crook of his neck, clinging to him. But unlike the last time, where they wanted to imprint one another on their souls, this time it was an embrace filled with desperate joy.

_She came back to me._

~~~

Josephine and Leliana had gone all out for Emma’s celebration. Music blared from where the Inquisitor’s throne once stood. Tall banners rippled down the walls, tables were lined with foodstuffs from across Thedas; from Orlesia Petit Fours to Ferelden meat pies and grape leaves stuffed with rice and herbs from Antiva. And all around them, people. People from all walks of life, from all nations and backgrounds— everyone wanted a piece of his Emma.

And tonight, he couldn’t blame them. Tonight, she was swathed in a Nevarran-style gown the color of moonlight, with metal bracers that went to her elbows. Her golden hair was curled softly over one shoulder and woven with pearls. A simple silver circlet ringed her forehead. She floated from guest to guest, her eyes bright, her smile radiant. Tonight, she looked the Goddess that people believed she was.

His breath caught when she met his eyes. The pure heat in her gaze was intense and focused squarely on him, and it took all his self-control not to go to her right then and there. He was off to the side, letting the rest of Thedas meet their savior; if he didn’t stay there, he would monopolize all of her attention. He couldn’t stop thinking of tearing the finery he wore off, followed very closely by her very-fragile looking gown.

He hoped she wouldn’t mind parting with it tonight.

He was approached by many people that evening, many he did not know—of course rumors had flown about their relationship, and everyone and his cousin wanted to know the Inquisitor from her lover’s point of view. He put up with it, for her sake, but his patience was wearing thin.

“I see you haven’t dragged our Emma to a secluded corner and divested her of that lovely gown,” a thick Tevinter accent heavily slurred from drink snarked from somewhere around his shoulder. “Seems I owe Bull a sovereign—I bet you two wouldn’t even make an appearance. If you don’t mind, wait another few minutes. If you make it past the toasts, Varric owes both of us.”

Cullen snorted; “Hello, Dorian. Find our stash of Tevinter reds already?”

“I am eternally grateful for it, but delightfully tipsy,” the mage hiccupped a bit.

_Oh man, he will feel that in the morning._

“Well, tonight is a night of celebration,” Cullen chuckled around a shrug.

“You bet your sweet Templar arse it is,” Dorian was a touch more jubilant than normal. Whether it was the drink, or the festivities, Cullen wasn’t sure. “As a matter of fact, I think I am going to celebrate right now. Oh, and congratulations on the whole unparalleled love of the Inquisitor and all that. Sure you two will have a gaggle of the most beautiful golden-haired hell-spawns this world has ever seen. Ta!”

He sauntered over to the other side of the hall, where Bull and the rest of the Chargers were making the biggest scene Skyhold had seen yet. It was a welcome distraction, it seemed, because when he scanned the crowd for Emma, she was heading towards her chambers, casting surreptitious glances over her shoulder.

He brushed through the crowd, depositing his wine goblet on the table, ignoring Leliana’s pointed smirk. He caught Emma just as she pushed her door open. He pressed himself against her back, for once glad he forwent his armor in favor of a velveteen jacket. He could feel the warmth of the bare skin of her back.

“Nice dress,” he murmured, running a possessive hand over her hip.

“Thanks,” she quipped, though a catch in her voice took some of the bite out. She spun into him, bracing herself against the door. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

She slid a hand over his chest, running her nails over the soft fabric of his coat. An attractive flush was spread over her cheeks; she was rosy with drink, but her eyes were lucid. Good.

He leaned into her, their lips mere inches apart; “I was hoping we could get away. I’d like to demand some of your…attention.”

She leaned up to him, but didn’t close the distance. She liked the game they were playing; “I suppose my adoring public has seen enough of me tonight.”

He growled under his breath, fisting the fabric of her gown and tugging for emphasis; “I hope you’re not all that attached to this.”

Her breath stopped for a minute and, Maker, he could _see_ her eyes dilate with desire. He reached for the knob and discreetly slipped through the door, pulling her through. As soon as the door closed behind them, they were like teenagers again. Her frantic hands skimmed over his chest; his thumb rasped over the swell of her breast. Her nipple hardened under the gossamer fabric and she arched into his touch.

“Upstairs,” he growled against her lips. “I want you, Emma.”

She shuddered, but wasted no time. She took his hand in hers, her too-hot fingers closing around his. They scrambled up her private staircase; he had an insistent hand against the small of her back. It took all his self-control not to spin her, push her skirts to the side and have her on the staircase.

He had some anxiety to work out.

_No. Bed. More options that way._

She pulled him into her chambers. The fire wasn’t lit and the lanterns were dark, but the full moon was bright enough to fill the room with silvery light. He closed a hand around her shoulder, his thumb putting pressure at the front of her throat. It wasn’t enough to choke, or even constrict. It was a possessive gesture, and she shuddered at the too-rough touch. He slammed her into the bed post, crushing her lips to his.

He tangled a hand in her hair, turning her head side to side, delving into her mouth. He swallowed her little moans as she moved her hips against him. She didn’t look all that steady on her feet, and he felt a smug swell in his chest.

He stilled her hips by dragging her flush with him. His hands were everywhere, his blood sang in his veins.

_Please_ was the desperate mantra. He wanted all of her; he wanted to see her. _Please. Please._

He fisted the fabric of her bodice, watching it strain under his fingers. He looked into her eyes for any sign to stop; she simply continued to gasp for breath, refusing to break eye contact. She kept her hand on his shoulder, clutching him for support.

He smirked, and with a sharp tug her dress ripped cleanly from the neckline to her hips. He grinned devilishly when her bare breasts were exposed. When he moved his hands up to tug at her curls, the material slid smoothly down her hips to pool at her feet. He pulled her forward, towards him, away from the bed; she stepped out of the ruined dress, and he couldn’t help but gape.

Her slippers couldn’t have been comfortable—a tall, dangerously thin heel on a delicate silver shoe that lengthened her legs immeasurably—but her stockings were near-sheer, lace topped things that ended just at the apex of her thighs. Her golden curls were left exposed, the daring girl. The effect was… interesting to say the least.

He pulled her to him again, his hand ghosting over her bare hips. She keened a high pitched moan and leaned into his touch, swaying unsteadily on the treacherous shoes. He slid his hands under the curve of her bottom, gripping her thighs tightly and lifting her bodily against his chest.

Never once did they break eye contact. The sheer heat passing through them should have ignited him; his blood sang and burned all at once and all he wanted to do was cover her completely. He wanted to consume her, to shatter her in his arms.

He plopped her unceremoniously on the bed, pushing her into the mattress. He kissed a long line down her throat, his hand coming up to knead her soft, generous breast. She moaned a low, primal sigh of a sound, her back bent into a sinuous bow. He used his other hand to wander, pressing bruising fingertips into her hip.

She bucked against him, sending a shock though his system. He bent to take one of her nipples into his mouth. He circled it with the very tip of his tongue, sucked it in and out of his lips. She could barely do anything other than gasp as he matched his ministrations with harsh, rhythmic twists of his fingers. Her nipples are painfully hard; she thrusts her hips against his, desperately seeking the friction she desperately needs.

He grins against her breast, nipping playfully against the pebbled flesh. She cries out, but the soft mounds are still heaving with desire. He kisses a scorching trail over her chest and belly, drawing her legs over his shoulders.

She’s so diminutive compared to him; her legs are spread wide over his shoulders. She is completely exposed to him. He tentatively—experimentally—curves his finger over her slick folds. She draws her hips up in time with the teasing movement, and he’s pleasantly surprised—and suddenly painfully aroused—when he sees a shimmering trail of fluid rush out of her opening.

“Oh, Emma,” he murmurs appreciatively. He presses a biting kiss to her inner thigh, ghosting his breath over her clit. “I want to taste you.”

With that, he lowers himself to her. He circles his tongue in a punishing point over her clit. He draws tiny, tight spirals; she twitches underneath him. It doesn’t take her long before she’s moving in time with his motions, her breath steadily speeding. Just at the peak, he pulls back. She gasps. Moans. Practically shouts her frustration.

He returns to his ministrations with a wicked chuckle. This time, he presses his tongue flat against her clit, knowing it will drive her crazy. It won’t get her there, though. That much he knows for certain. Her hands are buried in his hair, tugging almost too-hard. Her hips are bucking an uneven rhythm and her moans are coming out more like sobs. He is so achingly hard; he forces himself to slow, to ease his grip on her thighs. He skated his fingers to her opening, pressing one sword-rough digit past her fold.

She was slick. No. Soaking wet. He dragged in a ragged sob of a moan when he felt her—so hot, so wet, tiny flutters grasping and sucking as he drew his finger in and out of her. He tested the waters with one more; she gasped, fisting the sheets pathetically. He felt the edges of his control fade when her cunt made obscene slick noises as he pumped his fingers into her.

He drew her to the edge once more, and she was practically sobbing.

“Cullen,” she howled. “ _Please.”_

He chuckled against her, sliding a third finger into her. He could feel the tight stretch; that ring of muscle clenched at him tightly. When he thought of that feeling on his cock, he shuddered.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he replied darkly.

He lowered his tongue to her with gusto, moving in that perfect rhythm he _knew_ drover her wild. Her moans grew higher pitched, faster, longer and then she fell. He could feel her spasm around him, a gush of fluid visibly trickling down his hand, darkening the cuffs of his jacket.

_Maker’s breath, but that’s incredible._

He forced her through her orgasm, drawing her pleasure out. She was practically screaming into the pillow she’d grabbed, but he didn’t stop. Her whole body was twitching, her cunt still grasping at his fingers. He was merciless. He continued sucking on the hyper-sensitive pearl, holding her in place while he administered his delicious torture. He only stopped when she tried to twist away from him, and he pulled away with a lingering suck.

She was panting shamelessly, boneless. Her blue eyes were wide; despite his lips and chin being covered in her arousal, he captured her lips in a searing kiss.

He needed her. Every moan of hers, every sob of pleasure, lashed through him like a whip of fire. She rubbed her naked breasts against his jacket, purring at the friction. She grabbed hold of his jacket and yanked, pulling it open in one pull. The golden buttons scattered, clattering to unknown corners. He would never find them all. He didn’t care. Her hands had already pulled his shirt from his breeches and she was skimming her nails across his chest; he jolted when she twisted sharply against one of his nipples.

He pushed on her shoulders, pressing her into the mattress. His already tenuous control was slipping, and at this point, he felt it wouldn’t take much. He pulled back, watching her with hungry eyes as he began shedding his garments. His coat joined her ruined gown, while his shirt was tossed blindly somewhere behind him. As he pulled off his breeches, she saw her hips shift and her shoes fell to the floor. The lace-topped stockings she kept on, though, and he was perfectly OK with that.

They were exposed to one another; he levered over her and couldn’t help but revel in her beauty. She was a Goddess, his sun and stars and moonlight and just everything to him. His heart twisted in a delicious ache when her sex-darkened eyes softened for him. She drew her full lips up in an unguarded smile—a beautiful, soft version of the very first smile she ever gave him. An unbearable ache pulled somewhere in the region of his groin.

“Maker, I love you so much,” he groaned, leaning his forehead against her.

“I love you too,” she whimpered, pushing her hands into his hair.

In that moment, it changed. He held her hips— _so_ gently—lining himself up with her opening. He pressed past that muscular barrier, looking into her eyes while he pushed forward inch by agonizing inch. Her eyes widened, she bit at her bottom lip. Her hands moved to his shoulders, holding him steady.

He was sheathed in her, and he knew with this wet, clenching heat he wouldn’t last long. He surged forward into a kiss, using one arm to hook behind her knee, driving her leg up towards her shoulder. It opened her for him, and she cried out; he swallowed her moans, her whimpers, her cries of ecstasy. His tongue swiped at her lips, coaxed her tongue forward. He reached between them, gently flicking his finger over her clit.

“I need,” his voice sounded so ragged to him it was almost unrecognizable. This _heat_ coiled tight in his core wouldn’t stay that way long. Every erratic thrust drove him deeper, drove him closer to the edge. She dug her fingers into his shoulder, matching the movement of her hips to his. If she kept matching him like this, he wouldn’t be able to hold on. “I need to see you come, angel.”

The demand seemed to push her over the edge, because while this orgasm was less wild than the first she received tonight, he could see the widening of her eyes, the desperate part of her lips; he could feel the hot rush of wetness around his cock, the grasping flutters of her cunt. She drew him closer, crushing her lips to his. He wouldn’t last much longer.

“I’m going to come,” he cried against her lips. “Emma, I—.”

“Come for me, Cullen,” she murmured.

He hadn’t realized how potent that simple request could be. An almost painful coil of heat shot through him, narrowing his whole world to a single point. His hips snapped against her; he lost his rhythym, but it didn’t matter. He was over the edge, past the point of no return. He shattered in her arms, babbling incoherent nonsense as he rode out the waves of his orgasm. The blood pounded in his ears as he emptied into her. And she rode it out with him.

He went boneless on top of her, collapsing into her. She held him, pressing soft kisses wherever she could reach; she ran soft, soothing hands over the sweaty expanse of his back. He buried himself in the crook of her shoulder, trying desperately to get closer.

“Maker, I love you, angel,” he murmured.

“You said that already,” she giggled.

He nuzzled her neck, his lips drawing up in a sleepy smile. He levered himself off of her, gasping when he pulled out. Her hair was a tangled mess—she would have trouble finding those little pearls in the morning—but her circlet remained in place. The image was so incongruous, it was almost perfect.

It didn’t take long for them to get cleaned up and nestled under her covers. He ran a sleepy hand over her shoulder; she was rested against his chest, right over his heartbeat; her hand splayed over his stomach while their legs were hopelessly tangled together. Once again he marveled at how perfect they fit together. And for now, the war was over. They could focus on each other.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his whisper almost too loud in the silence.

“Mmm,” she purred against him. “Everything’s going to change now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he answered. “But I don’t care about that. All that matters is that you’re here, and you’re alive, and it’s perfect.”

“Wow, I’m shocked,” she quipped with a giggle. “So what do you say? Keep the Inquisition up and running, or run away into the night? Just you and me?”

“A tempting offer,” he chuckled. He honestly didn’t know. Now was not the time for decision making.

She rolled over, gazing out the windows. There was a bright pink line on the edges of the mountains; “The sun’s coming up.”

“Maker, we’ve been up all night,” Cullen sighed.

She grinned at him, yanking the sheet towards her.

“Woman, do not hog those covers. It is _bloody_ cold in here!”

His protest died on his lips when she draped the sheet around her; it was a tantalizing effect; “Come on. Let’s watch the sunrise.”

He beamed at her; “All right. Let me make myself decent.”

He dragged on his breeches, wincing when they pulled over his groin. She was already on her balcony, leaning on the railing. He stepped behind her, encircling her in his arms. He didn’t know where this was going, or what he would do when they eventually got some sleep.

All he knew was that this was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, this is fucking long. I'm sorry. 
> 
> Only one more chapter!! Wah!  
> Thank you to everyone who reads and comments and likes this piece!! You are the best; I always look at your lovely comments when I need a pick-me-up!!


	18. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1 Year Later

“And time starts, now.”

Cullen turned the hourglass the midwife gave them as soon as Emma gave him the signal. The white sand was surprisingly easy to see in the bare candle light.

“So how long can I morally hold this over his head?” Emma asked, breathing deeply, clutching her enormous stomach. “Because it is literally the ass-crack of the night.”

Cullen had to laugh, despite his growing anxiety. He ghosted his hand over his wife’s belly button, wincing when he felt it twitch; “Does it hurt?”

“Turns out labor, despite the super fun name,” she quipped, trying to catch her breath. “Not so fun.”

“You get snarky when you’re in pain,” Cullen quipped, resting his head against her shoulder. “And tired.”

“From what my mother told me, tired is sort of a constant state for new parents.”

“When _does_ your family arrive?” Cullen asked.

“Well, mother said she and father would be here before lunch tomorrow,” Emma replied, relaxing against him. “So expect her by dawn. My siblings should sort of trickle in within the next few days. What about you?”

“My mother is ecstatic,” Cullen chuckled. “Mia can’t wait; Rosalie is frantic, and Bran is… well, Bran is Bran. The entire horde will be here before sunset tomorrow.”

“Oh a horde, should I be worried?”

“Only if you mind overbearing blondes who’ve had a whole gaggle of kids already,” Cullen retorted, kissing her shoulder. “So of course, she knows everything.”

“Well, between you and me plus our families, I think Skyhold will be at capacity as far as overbearing blondes are concerned.”

He laughed, feeling another spike of anxiety. He chanced a glance over at the hourglass—it was only half-done.

“This kid better not get here before his grandmother,” Emma said. “He’ll never live it down.”

“Both his grandmothers,” Cullen added. “In all seriousness, are you ok? Do you need anything?”

“Not right now, darling, but thank you,” she ran a hand through his curls; he purred and leaned into the touch. “Just keep an eye on the hourglass?”

“Will do.”

Emma jumped; “Oh. Another one.”

Cullen whipped around to glance at the hourglass; “That wasn’t even one turn. I’m getting the midwife.”

“Please, don’t leave!” she exclaimed, gripping his wrist. Sudden fear had settled over her.

Despite his own fear, he tried to look calm for his wife; “Emma, I’m just going to send one of the staff. I’ll only be gone a minute.”

“Ok,” Emma loosened her grip and tried to relax. “Ok. Get Cassandra, too? She is the godmother, after all.”

“Of course,” Cullen kissed Emma’s hair. “I’ll be back.”

“Hey, Cullen?” she asked as he turned towards the stairs.

“Yeah?”

“We’re having a baby.”

Saying it out loud made it real. He softened; tears tickled the corner of his eyes; “I know. I couldn’t be happier, angel.”

A little after sunrise, Cullen was surprised to welcome both Chloe Amelia and Alexander William Rutherford to the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank everyone who brought me through this process. I love every person who read and commented and left kudos and just in general made writing this so enjoyable.
> 
> You all are the reasons I finished this. You kept it going, and for that I am eternally grateful!


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